


my heart lies buried like something dead

by Cinaed



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Canon Era, Complete, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, M/M, Noncanonical Character Death, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-27 03:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 99,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>That night on the parapet, Valjean forces Javert to live. Some time later, Javert finds himself returning the favor.</i> </p><p>"Do you think," Javert said slowly, in a tone that perhaps meant to mock but trembled with another emotion entirely, "that once you have saved a life, you must also save that man's soul?"</p><p>"I know nothing of saving souls," Valjean said. "My soul was bought for God, not saved. But it is my belief that you are better than the fate to which you have consigned yourself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Javert Dissuaded

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to ailelie for the hand-holding and beta-reading and awesome suggestions that made this story much better in the long run. Also, for putting up with my flailing as the story went from 2,000 words to a much larger story.
> 
> A note on how I use thou versus you in the story: I read Hopgood's translation on Project Gutenberg, where her translation emphasized the use of the informal thou versus the respectful you. (Although since then, you has become the informal, regularly used one and thou has become archaic-- don't you love changing semantics?) Since the translation made it a point to mention both Javert shifting from a rude thou to a more polite you when speaking to Valjean, and Cosette being forced to call Valjean you instead of thou, I decided to continue that in the story.

Javert took off his hat and held it in his hands for a moment. He was not hesitating; even with his thoughts flying apart, even with the stone he now knew as a heart in his breast cracking into pieces, he was not a man to waver overlong once he had made a decision. He set the hat down carefully upon the edge of the quay. Why leave the hat behind, one might wonder. If anyone had questioned Javert then, he would have been unable to give a proper answer. All he would've offered would have been a vague explanation that getting his hat wet had seemed unconscionable to him.

Javert straightened.

The vapors chilled his face and stung his bare ears as the Seine murmured a soft lament in his ears. He touched his chest and wondered briefly at the pain there, like a man shot who cannot quite comprehend the red staining his shirt. He stepped upon the parapet, bending a little to peer through the mist. There was nothing to be seen. The vapors obscured his vision as though he stood in the midst of clouds, an angel about to plummet to hell instead of a man about to condemn himself to oblivion. He grimaced at the foolishness of his own thoughts, wild and not at all like his usual ones. Then he straightened once more and drew in a breath that chilled his lungs.

"Inspector." The voice was quiet but sudden, and a tremor of shock and bewilderment ran through Javert's frame. He had heard no one approach, had thought himself out of sight of any passerby. "Inspector," the voice said again in a queer tone, half-chiding, half-coaxing.

Javert turned and recognized Valjean.

"You," he said. The word fell from his lips like a stone, colorless and without inflection. He stood frozen, almost a statue, staring with bewildered eyes at that familiar face, which bore marks of weary strain and a hasty attempt at cleaning the foul muck of the sewers from Valjean's features. After a moment of silence in which Valjean merely watched him, Javert forced himself to speak. "Has exhaustion left you addled? You were meant to remain at No. 7."

Valjean didn't smile. In fact, it seemed to Javert that Valjean looked almost reproachful. "Permit me an old man's curiosity, but I believe _you_ were meant to arrest me. I wished to learn why you hadn't."

Javert stared at him. An emotion was stirring in his chest, but this being the familiar feeling of anger, he embraced it. "I don't owe you an explanation," he declared. For the first time since he had quit No. 7, he sounded like himself again, curt and unmovable.

"Perhaps not, but I would be glad of one nonetheless," Valjean said. The gentleness of his words was not meant to hurt, Javert knew, and yet it stung. Valjean spread his hands, the gesture beseeching. "Step down from the parapet and we can speak on it."

He wished for Javert to step down and talk of his thoughts of the past few hours, to give voice to all his anguish and uncertainty, to unburden his soul as though Valjean were a priest and Javert his parishioner!

Javert did a strange thing, then. He laughed. The sound was terrible even half-swallowed up by the mist, but Valjean didn't flinch. He regarded Javert steadily. His face bore the look of one patiently awaiting an answer. Javert's lips parted. He had no mirror at hand, but he knew how his smile must look: a grim slant of his lips that had no trace of mirth whatsoever. "No," he said. That was all, a flat denial. He turned away from Valjean and back towards the edge of the parapet. If he must have a witness to this terrible act, then so be it. He wouldn't endure another minute longer for the sake of Valjean's curiosity.

Valjean seized his arm, that strong hand clamping tight around Javert's elbow. Was this how a convict felt as the restraints snapped tight upon their wrists? Javert tried to shake Valjean's hand away, but the other man held tight. "Come down," Valjean repeated.

"Unhand me," Javert snarled. Most might have trembled at the fury in Javert's voice. Any other man would certainly have turned tail and fled into the darkness of the street and left Javert to his fate. Valjean remained unmoved. Javert continued thickly, "You have no right."

"No!" Valjean said. Javert felt a thrill of bitter satisfaction at the first hint of anger in Valjean's voice. "No, Javert, it is _you_ who has no right. I didn't save your life at the barricade for you to discard it like a worthless old rag!"

Javert laughed again, all too aware of the fact that he trembled violently in Valjean's grip and that his expression had taken on a bewildered, agonized cast. Valjean's expression changed a little then; Javert recoiled from the sympathy he saw in that grave face, as though Valjean cared about his suffering and was moved by it. He knew that he must escape Valjean's grasp and drive him away with words or fists. He chose words as his first weapon, as was his custom.

"Do you think," he said slowly, in a tone that meant to mock but trembled with another emotion entirely, "that once you have saved a life, you must also save that man's soul?"

He could no longer make sense of Valjean's expression, but the grip upon his elbow remained firm. "I know nothing of saving souls," Valjean said. "My soul was bought for God, not saved. But it is my belief that you are better than the fate to which you have consigned yourself."

"You know nothing of me," Javert said flatly. Laughter caught in his throat, strangling him for a moment as his mind reeled at the absurdity of this conversation. "I have hunted you like a hound tracks a fox, have treated you worse than the basest of creatures. What can you know of what I do or do not deserve?"

To his astonishment, Valjean smiled at that, the corners of his weary eyes crinkling as though Javert had made a joke. "You helped me bring the boy home when I asked it of you."

Javert opened his mouth to argue that the boy had been a corpse with merely a few breaths left in his body, that he had done nothing particularly kind, but the warmth of Valjean's smile stilled the words on his tongue.

They stared at each other in silence. They made a strange picture, Javert thought desparingly, the man in uniform, his expression hunted, and the man still wearing ruined clothes streaked with the foulness of the sewers, his expression almost triumphant.

"Enough," Javert said at last, with the air of one admitting defeat. His shoulders slumped, his straight back bowed. "You have made your point. Release me."

Valjean didn't remove his hand. "Come down off the parapet."

Javert moved slowly, feeling all the years of his life suddenly pressing down upon him. He found that it hurt to step away from the edge and ignore the siren call of the river. It seemed to him that the Seine had caught hold of him and didn't wish to release him, his body weighed down as though his uniform was already heavy from water.

He stepped carefully off the parapet, Valjean's hand still warm and firm upon his elbow.

"Your hat," Valjean said mildly, offering it to him.

Javert did not take it. It seemed as though he had used up all his strength in stepping from the parapet. It was all he could do not to let his legs buckle and to sink to his knees in the street. Perhaps that reflected in his face, for Valjean dropped the hat and caught Javert's other elbow with his free hand, bearing him up.

"Easy," Valjean said, and there was that queer tone again, half-coaxing, like one would soothe an upset beast.

If he hadn't been so overwhelmed with the idea of having to live out the rest of his days in uncertainty and doubt, Javert might have been insulted. As it happened, it took all that was left of his fragmented pride to keep from lowering his head to Valjean's shoulder and weeping in fury and despair at being forced to live. To spend another day in this world seemed a very bitter thing, a curse rather than a blessing. How had Valjean endured it, those years on the run, flinching at every shadow in case he, Javert, emerged from them to drag him back to the galleys? How would _Javert_ endure this horrible future, having to decide for himself what was good or evil, just or unjust, merciful or cruel?

"Give me your address, and I will take you there."

It took a moment for the words to reach Javert through his haze of despair. He raised his bewildered gaze to Valjean's face and said nothing. He had a room where he slept, but there was nothing there to incite longing in one's chest when one was away from that small, cramped room. He thought of the apartment, of the walls closing in on him just as surely as the river would have devoured him. He shook his head.

Valjean's grip tightened. "Let me take you to No. 7 then."

"Very well," Javert said. He did not bow his head in defeat, but that was only because he doubted he would be able to raise it again if he made the gesture. 

He and Valjean stood face to face now, close enough that Javert could see every line on the other man's face, all the marks etched there by years of grief and toil. He wondered which lines he could lay claim to, and which were the fault of the galleys and years on the run. He had the absurd notion to touch Valjean's jaw and ask, but the idea was fleeting, disappearing into the mad whirl of thoughts that was his despondent mind.

Valjean said nothing more, maneuvering them so that he stood between Javert and the parapet, as though he thought Javert might still change his mind and go leaping off the bridge as they walked towards Valjean's apartment.

"You need not be so careful with me. I won't do it." Javert heard a bit of irritation break through the hollowness of his voice. "Did you not say as much that my soul has been bought?"

Valjean's expression tightened, consternation and surprise on his face. "I have not bought your soul, Javert." He seemed almost comically alarmed by the notion.

This time it was Javert's turn to look steadily at him. "If you have not, then I may do what I please with it."

Valjean's eyes narrowed. Something flickered across his face, this emotion too fleeting for Javert to decipher. His gaze darted away and lifted towards the sky, as though calling upon heaven for an answer that would not send Javert to the fatal embrace of the Seine. "Very well," he said slowly. His grip tightened again on Javert's arm, then eased a little. "Your soul is bought."

At witnessing his old enemy so disconcerted, Javert felt a bit of his humor return. "And what have you paid for my soul?" he asked. He made a show of gesturing with empty hands. "I see no napoleon in my palm."

Valjean's lips twitched in either a smile or a frown, it was impossible to say. "My soul was bought for two candlesticks worth far more than a napoleon. I think yours would cost a little more still."

As before, he had probably not meant the remark to sting, but sting it did, burrowing like nettle under Javert's skin. He frowned. "And what do you know of the worth of a soul?" he said. " _Your_ price seems rather high to me."

There was a long pause in which Valjean did not seem to breathe, his expression carved in stone. "The bishop did not think it so," he said after a moment, and his tone was such that Javert knew he had overstepped.

Javert kept silent, the passing fit of humor banished in the wake of Valjean's response. Instead he stepped forward, and Valjean followed. They walked in silence for a time, moving slowly, Valjean's hand never leaving Javert's arm. If Javert felt that they leaned somewhat into each other's grasp, he told himself that they were no longer young men, and the past few days had been wearying beyond endurance.

When they arrived at Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7, the front window was ablaze with light. Beside him, Valjean stiffened. When Javert turned to see what was amiss, Valjean's expression was one of deep alarm.

Valjean whispered something under his breath. It might have been a prayer, having been spoken with such tenderness, if not for the fact that Javert recognized it as a name. "Cosette." Valjean turned towards Javert, and now some of the hunted look of the convict returned to his features. "Inspector, please, do not tell her--"

"Papa!" A girl flew from the entrance of No. 7, flinging her arms around Valjean's neck and then just as swiftly retreating a step and wrinkling her nose. "Papa, where hast thou been? I was about to wake Toussaint and sound an alarm! And what has happened? Thou smells of--" She stopped abruptly, alarm banishing the youthful blush from her cheeks as her gaze fell upon Javert. "Papa? Has something happened?"

Valjean said nothing, but when Javert met his gaze, Valjean's look was beseeching. Javert comprehended the matter in a flash of startled enlightenment; the girl knew nothing of her "father's" past, and Valjean wished for her to remain innocent.

"Papa?" Cosette repeated. Uncertainty made her voice waver.

It would take only a simple sentence to destroy this strange family Valjean had created. _I am Inspector Javert, here to escort this criminal you thought your father to jail._ The words rose to Javert's throat and caught there. He could not say it. He reached instead for his hat, his hand halfway to his forehead before he remembered that it was still back at the quay. He dropped his hand back to his side. "Good evening, mademoiselle," he said with a brief bow. "I am Inspector Javert. Your father is...your father is an old acquaintance of mine. We were caught up discussing old times, and I am afraid I have kept him from you. I apologize for any alarm."

"Oh," Cosette said, puzzlement giving way to delight. She offered him a dazzling smile. "You'll pardon me for being surprised, I am sure, monsieur! Father speaks so little of his past, I sometimes think he sprang fully formed from the sea like Aphrodite. I am very glad to meet you." She laughed, a merry little sound. "Perhaps I can coax a story or two from you. Please, come in!"

Javert, who had been unable to fight the sardonic smile that curved his lips at the girl's innocent remarks, looked to Valjean, who nodded slightly. "Thank you," Javert said and started to follow her inside.

Valjean's hand, still on his arm, made him pause. He looked back. Valjean wore a dazed look, like a man who has just emerged from a nightmare and is uncertain of what was the dream and what is reality. "Thank you, Javert." This was said in a low murmur, Valjean’s voice thick with gratitude.

Javert shifted in place, unfamiliar with the emotion tightening his chest but certain he did not care for it. "I am no thief," he retorted softly, his voice twisting strangely on the final word. "I will not steal my soul back by destroying the girl's trust in you."

Valjean's hand dropped away from his arm at that; he blinked slowly, his gaze lingering on Javert in a way that made him suddenly wish for his hat or, at the very least, more space between them. "I see," he said.

"Papa! Inspector!"

They both turned at Cosette's call.

"After you," Javert said with an ironic bow.

Valjean wore an unreadable expression at that but entered the apartment, apparently trusting Javert to follow.

The girl, chattering a seemingly endless stream of words that Javert only half-listened to, forced Valjean to wash and change. Once she had deemed Valjean presentable, she then plied them both with cheese and a bit of wine. It was only after they had both eaten their full that she leaned forward and favored Javert with a winsome smile and hopeful look. "I wonder if you might tell me a story, monsieur," she said.

"Cosette," Valjean said a little hastily. His hands, which had been resting loosely on his knees, tightened into fists, his knuckles white with strain. Javert found himself watching the emotions play across Valjean's face. The instinctual alarm was slowly replaced by consternation as he presumably remembered Javert's earlier promise not to harm Cosette's opinion of her guardian. He shook his head. "I am certain the inspector doesn't--"

"Please? I know curiosity is a sin, but I fear I am filled to the brim with it," Cosette exclaimed. She had the air of someone resisting the urge to wiggle with eagerness as she fixed her expectant gaze upon Javert. "Tell me a story of your acquaintance if you would, good inspector."

Javert cleared his throat, discomforted by the intensity of her focus. "I am not a storyteller." 

"Oh, neither is Papa."

That expectant gaze didn't waver, and after a moment Javert cleared his throat again. "Very well," he said. He watched from the corner of his eye as Valjean tensed. "I witnessed your father rescue a trapped man from a terrible death beneath a cart."

"What!" The exclamation escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Forgive my interruption, monsieur. I didn't expect a story of Papa being a hero." She turned a fond smile upon Valjean. "Although I am not surprised."

To Javert's astonishment, Valjean colored at Cosette's warm regard. "I am surprised he remembers it," he murmured. "It was a long time ago."

"It was not something I am likely ever to forget," Javert said dryly. He remembered the rattle in the old man's throat, the way the mud had squelched beneath the onlookers' boots as they stood and stared, the perspiration on M. Madeleine's face as he emerged from beneath the cart a hero. "Your strength is unforgettable."

Valjean said nothing.

Javert found the silence disquieting, particularly when he noticed Cosette's queer look. She was glancing between him and Valjean, a strange, thoughtful gleam in her eyes. He found himself having to resist the urge to rub at his elbow where Valjean had grasped him so determinedly earlier. If he had been standing, he would have clasped his hands behind him; being currently seated, he smoothed down the front of his coat and kept quiet instead.

"And how did he save the man's life?" Cosette asked when neither man had spoken for a minute.

"The man was caught under the wheels of his cart. If your...father hadn't intervened, either the mud would have swallowed him or the wheels would have crushed him. I suspect it would have been the latter, but your father lifted the cart off the man long enough for others to leap in and pull him to safety."

Cosette turned to Valjean with shining eyes. She seemed speechless for a few seconds, and when she did speak, at first she could only murmur, "How amazing!" After another moment, apparently no longer overcome by the thought of her guardian as a hero, she added, "I cannot quite picture thee lifting such a heavy cart, Papa, but then, I suppose thou wert much younger then."

"Not _that_ much younger," Valjean said, a strange look on his face. It was, Javert realized when Cosette laughed and bobbed her head in apology, an expression of mock rebuke, a father's tenderness belying the admonishment.

Javert's mind, which had calmed somewhat in the reassuring formality and understood social cues that came with sitting down to wine and cheese, began to whirl again, cast adrift once more by the devotion Valjean and Cosette obviously felt. They were not related by blood and yet their affection for each other was sincere. Certainly there was more warmth between them than Javert had ever felt for his own mother and father.

He stood without realizing he had decided to rise to his feet. After a moment, Valjean and Cosette stood as well. "Are you leaving so soon?" Cosette asked, a trifle anxious. "Perhaps you should stay a while longer. The streets might still be dangerous."

"All the barricades are gone," Javert said, and watched Valjean flinch a little. "I will be as safe as one can be on these streets."

"Then perhaps you will visit again?" Cosette persisted. "We have so few visitors." Then her expression fell. "Oh, but I forgot! We are leaving soon."

Leaving? Javert turned to demand an answer of Valjean, only to find the other man shaking his head in denial. "No, Cosette. I have changed my mind. Thou-- _we_ are remaining in Paris."

In the next instant, Cosette had flung her arms around Valjean's neck. Her expression was one of ecstasy, shining so brightly with joy that Javert had to look away once more. "Papa!" she exclaimed. "If thou art teasing me, I shall never forgive thee! It is true? We are staying?"

"We are staying," Valjean said.

Cosette buried her face in his shoulder to muffle her exclamation of delight.

Javert wondered at the pain that crossed Valjean's face once Cosette was no longer looking at him. He marveled, too, at the tender way the other man cradled Cosette's head, as though he wished never to let go of her.

When Cosette lifted her head from Valjean's shoulder, the girl's face was wet with happy tears. "Thou art marvelous, Papa," she said, and then turned a beaming smile upon Javert. "And that means you _must_ come and visit again!"

Javert wished for his hat once more, if only so that he had something to do with his hands. He clasped them behind his back and shifted uncomfortably in place. "Perhaps I shall," he said without any particular inflection, not looking towards Valjean. "Have a good--" Too late he realized that he did not remember Valjean's latest nom de guerre, despite Valjean telling him it at the sewers. He finished with a rather awkward, "Have a good evening."

"I will show you to the door, Inspector," Valjean said, reluctantly stepping out of Cosette's embrace.

"Thank you," Valjean said again once they had stepped out onto the street. Javert's confusion must have shown on his face, for Valjean hesitated and added, "I know that you said you would not tell Cosette of my past, and that you are a man of your word, but I wished to thank you for your kindness towards her."

Javert had not thought himself particularly kind but Valjean seemed sincere in his gratitude. “I did nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “I simply told the truth.”

“The truth,” Valjean echoed. There was an odd expression on his face. “Yes, I suppose you did.” He hesitated once more. He started to speak, but said nothing more for a moment as Javert watched. At last he shook his head. “Tomorrow,” he said slowly, as though choosing each word carefully, “I will go to Rue des Filles-du Calvaire to see if the boy lives. If he does, you will be able to find me either there or here. Should you should have need of me.”

“Ah, yes,” Javert said. “The boy. Another soul the man of mercy decided to save, and for only the cost of a single journey through the sewers this time.” The words soured on his tongue, came out harsh and a little bitter as he thought again of the drudgery of living.

Something tightened in Valjean’s expression. “When I saved the boy, it was for Cosette’s sake and not in an attempt to achieve sainthood,” he said tartly. “She loves him. If he lives, they will be married.”

Javert, still certain that the boy would not survive the night, found himself glad that he would not be here to watch the joy go from Cosette’s face when she learned of the boy’s death. “If he lives,” he repeated. He straightened. He was not one for farewells, especially not ones that promised as much awkwardness as this did.

“Farewell,” he said brusquely, hoping Valjean would have sense enough not to belabor the parting. He turned back in the direction of the Seine.

“Javert.”

Javert stopped and didn’t turn.

“If you return, I am known as Monsieur Fauchelevent.”

“Fauchelevent,” Javert murmured, frowning. The name had a familiar ring to it. After a moment he laughed, a sharp bark of honest mirth. “The old man under the cart! I suppose it is good that I didn’t mention the man’s name.”

“That would have been somewhat difficult to explain,” Valjean agreed wryly.

If Javert had chosen to glance over his shoulder, he had no doubt Valjean would be smiling. He didn’t look. “Very well, Monsieur Fauchelevent. Farewell,” he said. He felt the pressure of Valjean’s gaze against his back as he walked away but Valjean did not call after him.

He retraced their steps back to the parapet where he had stood. The mist still shrouded the area and turned it otherworldly, the chill air biting once more at his face. It took him a moment to realize that his hat was gone. Stolen or blown over the edge by the malicious wind, Javert supposed. The river kept up its murmuring, but it did not enthrall him as before. When he peered down into the misty gloom he saw only water and deep shadows. The Seine no longer called out as an escape from the bleak thoughts and newly formed conscience that troubled him.

Weariness and a strange sense of loss weighed upon Javert’s shoulders. He felt acutely conscious that he stood alone staring into the river, a tired old man in a disheveled uniform who was beginning to shiver from the chill. He pressed his hand against his elbow where Valjean’s touch had steadied him. It felt colder than the rest of him.

He stood there for another moment, gathering what little strength he had left. He would go to his apartment and rest. The small, cramped room’s stove might banish the ache that seemed to have settled into his bones and in his chest.

Javert was halfway to his apartment when memory stirred of the letter he had left for Monsieur le Prefet. He paused mid-step, torn between consternation and something very much like hope. Would Monsieur Gisquet contemplate any of his suggestions of improvement? Perhaps Javert could be of service there.  At the very least there was the possibility of tasks and the promise of order.   

He continued onward, unconscious that his expression had smoothed out into an almost calm look, his brow furrowed in contemplation. His back was nearly as straight as before, his arms once again folded against his chest as he muttered to himself. Any passer-by close enough to make sense of his quiet utterances would have heard the following:

“You see, monsieur, the prisoners called barkers, who summon the other prisoners to the parlor, force the prisoner to pay them two sous to call his name distinctly. This is not only theft, it is cruel, and I believe we can eliminate this by…..” 


	2. The Condemnation of Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone who has read and enjoyed so far! After some consideration (and watching in bemusement as this chapter turned into 7,000 words), I have concluded this story will wind up at four chapters. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> Thanks again to ailelie for being an amazing beta reader and improving the story tremendously.

In the aftermath of the failed revolt, Javert had earned something that could almost be called trust from Valjean but had proceeded to garner another’s animosity. The Prefect of Police considered Javert’s list to be an insulting and ill-natured criticism of the police, a fit of mental aberration brought about by his close brush with death at the hands of the revolutionaries. Javert’s later protest against that infamous order for doctors to inform upon their patients only intensified M. Gisquet’s ire towards him.

Somewhat to his surprise, Javert found himself almost relieved by the hostility. It was something to strive against and overcome. _Flat justitia ruat coelum_ had always been his motto, but now he added _causarum justia et misericordia_ to his thought processes as well. He industriously kept his nose to the grindstone, implementing what small measures he could to prevent perceived injustice.

His conscience grew in fits and starts. Some days were easier than others to endure, and others still were terrible and so full of turmoil that he would return to his room with a distracted, melancholy air and arrive at the station-house the next morning with the sunken eyes and pallor of one who has slept poorly, if at all.

The weeks passed, slowly at first, and then more readily, until entire months seemed to pass by in the most fleeting of moments. Javert did not return to either the Rue de l'Homme Arme or the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire. If someone had pressed him to explain why he had not yet sought out Valjean to disclose the small deeds of mercy he had performed and to demand back his soul, he would have been unable to answer. Certainly, even in the privacy of his own mind he would have been unable to voice his uncertainty in the very existence of souls, and the creeping thought that even if he _did_ believe in them, he doubted himself a suitable guardian of his own. Javert had ill-used his soul for the first five decades of his life, after all; perhaps Valjean would tend to it more carefully.

Somehow, without quite knowing how, Javert developed the reputation of being the inspector that the sergeants and younger officers went to when they were confused or conflicted over a law or wanted to report an injustice. Despite this position of mentor which both pleased and somewhat baffled him, his reputation only fostered professional relationships. Javert was still reserved and laconic to a fault; warm sentiments were unnatural to him. No friendships sprang up between him and his fellow officers in the wake of what they all called his strange transformation.

His well-known solitary nature doubtless explained the curious gleam in the sergeant’s eyes and the young man’s questioning tone when he stopped before Javert’s desk in mid-June and said, “Excuse me, Inspector Javert, but there’s a lady to see you. A Madame Pontmercy?” 

“Madame Pontmercy?” Javert repeated. He searched his mind but the name rang only the vaguest of bells, that of a foolish young lawyer who had offered to help apprehend a gang of thieves and then promptly disappeared with two of Javert’s pistols. He might have wholly forgotten in the incident, but during the worst of his nights during the first few months after the failed insurrection, he had gone over his past cases by means of distraction. He frowned. “Did she say what she wanted?”

“No, Inspector, but she was very insistent that she see you.”

“Very well. Show her in,” Javert said. A minute later he found himself, to his utter astonishment, rising to greet Valjean’s Cosette.

The past twelve months had been more than kind to the girl; even Javert, with no private knowledge of women, could recognize a fundamental change in Cosette that announced the shift from a love-struck girl to a happily married young woman. Her face was flushed with health and radiant with bliss despite the worry clouding her eyes.

Cosette spoke in the same quick, impetuous manner he recalled from their brief encounter. “Forgive me, Inspector Javert, I don’t mean to distract you from important business. My husband would be furious with me if he learned I was here! Doubtless he thinks I am overreacting. But you know my father, perhaps in some ways better than I, for you know more of his past and what might make him do the singular things he does. I thought if it is not too much to ask, you might help me.”

Javert tried to make sense of what she was saying even as alarm tightened his chest. He thought over all the reasons she might have come to him in the police-station. It seemed absurdly terrible somehow that someone else might have recognized Valjean, and that Valjean might be in chains and on his way to the prison and Cosette here to beg for mercy. He cleared his throat and forced his voice into neutrality. “Forgive me, madame, but what type of assistance do you need? Has something happened to your father?”

“My father is missing,” Cosette said. Something in his expression made her turn pale and continue hastily, “That is, _I_ believe he is missing though everyone else seems to disagree. My husband, were he here, would tell you that Papa is prone to disappearing on mysterious journeys. What Marius doesn’t understand is that this journey has lasted far longer than any before! Always before it has been two or three days and no more, for he knew I could not bear to be parted from him for long! There has been no word from Papa, no explanation for the unusual delay, though he has been gone for nearly a month. He did not even come to see me before he departed! He simply left word that he would be traveling for a time.” Cosette was near tears by the time she had finished; her voice throbbed with emotion and her fingers had risen to grasp at her pale neck as though she was repressing a sob caught in her throat. “Please, will you find him for me?”

Javert said nothing for a moment. All words had fled him, though mad laughter caught in his throat. He repressed the urge, kept his expression impassive though it seemed a peculiar thing, that he, Javert, the very man who had spent a number of the past eighteen years hunting Valjean, would now be begged by Valjean’s daughter to find him once more. “Your father still lives upon the Rue de l'Homme Arme?”

“Yes,” Cosette said, the word almost a gasp, looking like a drowning woman coming up for air. She clasped Javert’s hands in hers and squeezed them tightly, releasing him before Javert could blink or otherwise react. Her face shone with relief and her voice trembled with sincerity. “Thank you, monsieur inspector! Thank you! I knew you would help me. As soon as you find him, please bring him to Rue des Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6., so that I may scold him for giving me such a fright!” 

She departed as suddenly as she had arrived, leaving Javert to wonder for a moment if she had been a figment of his imagination, something brought on from a sudden fever. But the sergeant stood before his desk once more, hiding his interest badly. The young man would never make a decent spy, Javert decided, though perhaps in time he’d make a decent officer.

“Did you need my assistance, Inspector?” the sergeant asked hopefully.

“No,” Javert said, voice curt enough that Moreau flinched. He softened his tone somewhat. “Wait. Give me a moment, and I will give you a letter to deliver to the Prefect's secretary. He must be told that I shall be away for two or three days.”

“ _Away_ , Inspector Javert?” 

“Away,” Javert said, and didn’t elaborate.  

 

* * *

 

Javert approached Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7 with a slow and uncertain tread. He was regretting his promise to Cosette and plagued with self-doubt. Surely if Valjean was gone without a word, it meant that he did not want to be found. And if he did not wish to see even his beloved daughter, there was very little likelihood that he would be pleased to see Javert.

Those who knew the inspector would have marveled at the air of indecision that surrounded him and how his steps dragged the closer he came to the apartment.

There was a woman sweeping the steps. He hailed her with a brusque, “Madame!”

The woman looked up, surprise flickering across her plain face as she took in his cane that pronounced him a member of the police. Then she smiled the guileless smile of a woman who has nothing to fear from the police. “Hello, monsieur,” she said, dropping a bit of a curtsy. “I am the portress of this establishment. How may I help you?”

“I am Inspector Javert. I am looking for Monsieur Fauchelevent.”

At that, the smile fled, replaced by an uneasy, speculative look that made Javert’s eyes narrow. “The old gentleman, monsieur? Has something happened to his daughter?” She grasped the broom tightly, muttering something under her breath about bad matches.

Javert frowned. What _was_ the woman muttering about? He stepped forward. “Nothing has happened to Madame Pontmercy. It is her father she is worried for, having not seen him for nearly a month. She sent me to find him.”

“Find him?” The woman’s cry was pure astonishment. “Find him, when he’s been here all the while, monsieur! I tell you, monsieur,” she added with some heat, “I do not understand that girl’s mind! She seemed so attentive and dutiful, as every good daughter ought to be, and now she does not visit for a month and claims she did not know he has taken to his bed. I cannot comprehend it!”

For a moment he could not understand the woman’s outburst, and then comprehension dawned. His frown deepened. Cosette had seemed quite certain that Valjean was no longer in residence at the apartment. “Madame, do you mean to tell me that he is still at No. 7?”

“Yes, monsieur,” the woman said, and then stumbled sideways out of Javert’s path as he marched past her into the house. He stalked up the stairs, wondering darkly at both Cosette and Valjean, Cosette for her paltry detective work and Valjean at this particularly pitiful attempt at concealment. “Monsieur! He is on the second floor, but monsieur--”

Javert threw open the door to Valjean’s antechamber. He found himself staring at a corpse, or at least for an instant what he comprehended as such.

If the past year had been kind to Cosette, it had been exceedingly cruel to Valjean. His closed eyes were sunken and colored like purple bruises, his expression as gaunt as it had been during those long years at Toulon. That still and silent form seemed to have aged ten years in the twelve months. Even as Javert stood in the doorway, his breath caught in his throat in what he told himself was merely shock, that frail chest rose in a wavering, labored breath.

“Monsieur!” The portress stood behind Javert, gasping a little for breath from her race up the stairs. She steadied herself against the wall, struggling to catch her breath and speak. The look that Javert turned upon her was so terrible that the unfortunate woman let out of a gasp of alarm and recoiled, holding up her hands in supplication. 

“He is ill,” Javert snarled. “Hast thou not the sense to fetch a doctor?”

“I did, monsieur,” the woman cried, trembling wildly at his fierce look. “The doctor came only three days past!”

“And? What ails him?” Javert demanded.

“The doctor, the doctor,” stammered the portress. She took a deep breath. “He said that the old gentleman has lost some person who was dear to him, and that he would die of a broken heart." She added, a trifle wildly for Javert still stared at her with that furious glower, "I told you, monsieur, it was a bad match-- he has surely broken his heart over his daughter marrying someone ill-suited--”

“That is pure nonsense,” Javert said, so coldly that the woman shivered. “Send for the doctor again. I will speak with him.”

“Yes, monsieur! I think he is visiting some poor soul on the next street,” the portress said, and gladly retreated back down the stairs.

“Pure nonsense,” Javert said again, gazing with a brooding stare at Valjean as the other man took in another slow, struggling inhalation. It was inconceivable that Valjean might die for such a foolish reason as the woman had suggested, not when he had survived nineteen years at Toulon and another eighteen years on the run from the law. Surely a man who could survive those long thirty-seven years of trial would not lie down and die simply because his daughter had gotten _married_.

In a few short strides he was at Valjean’s bedside. “Valjean,” he said, and it was perhaps good that he had sent the portress away for she would have wondered greatly at his queer tone. “Valjean, the doctor will be here shortly. Speak to me.”

Valjean did not stir even when Javert took his shoulder and shook him roughly. It was perhaps a cruel gesture to use upon an invalid, but Javert did not feel kindness at the moment, only a growing certainty that if Valjean did not open his eyes in the next second, Javert would do something terrible. Javert shook him again.

For another heartbeat, Valjean made no movement, did not even seem to breathe, as though he had died the instant Javert had seized him. Then his eyelids twitched, some animation returning to his wan face as his dry, chapped lips moved. He sighed, or perhaps whispered something.

Javert leaned forward.

“A strange apparition,” Valjean was murmuring, his voice rough with disuse. That cracked, broken voice had a tone of vague astonishment. “I expected the bishop, perhaps, or Fantine.”

“You are not dead, you fool,” Javert said a trifle waspishly. “You are merely ill.”

“Ah,” Valjean said, opening his eyes. They were glassy and unfocused, with the vague stare of someone struggling to keep conscious, but after a few seconds he managed to look in Javert’s general direction. His lips quivered in an attempt at a smile before the corners of his mouth turned downward. “That makes a little more sense.” He winced, a shudder going through him. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse with pain. “But what are you doing here, Javert?”

“Your daughter asked me to find you. Apparently she hadn't thought to check here,” Javert said, unrepentantly sardonic.

Javert had thought the other man had lost all color in his face; he realized he was wrong as Valjean’s wan cheeks blanched further. “Cosette,” he said, alarm twisting his features. He struggled to sit up and fell back against his pillow. “Tell me she isn’t here, Javert. She cannot….” He gasped for breath, distress deepening the lines on his face. "She cannot see...."

“She is not here,” Javert said, alarmed at Valjean’s pallor and the sweat on his brow from the mere attempt to sit upright. He realized that he was still clasping Valjean’s shoulder. He shook Valjean a touch more lightly than before, waiting until Valjean's wild-eyed stare came to rest on him before he continued. “She is presumably at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 with her husband, worrying about you. I wonder greatly that she didn't think to come here herself.”

Relief bloomed upon Valjean’s face. He closed his eyes for a moment, murmuring something that sounded like a grateful prayer. “I told her servant to tell Cosette I was not here,” he whispered.

“What?”  
      
“Cosette is not foolish or heartless, Javert,” Valjean said. His eyes had opened but they were not looking at Javert. Rather, he peered into space, blinking hard as though dazzled by something. His voice was fond and soft with tenderness, and there was another weak smile on his lips that Javert felt certain was not meant for him. “I am sure that she would have come to visit, had I not ordered her servant to tell her that I was no longer here. She does still care for me in some small way.”  
      
Javert folded his arms against his chest in thought. After a moment of silent consideration he concluded that Valjean's words made little sense. “And your daughter was deceived for what purpose, exactly?”

“She is married now, with a devoted husband, and a grandfather and aunt who think well of her. She has little need of an ex-con who might bring disaster down upon their heads.”

Valjean’s quiet, almost wistful answer made Javert’s eyes narrow. “Is it true then, what the portress said? Have you given up because your daughter is married and you feel unnecessary?” He found that he was shaking a little in fury at the idea. “I knew you strived for sainthood, Valjean,” he spat out, “but I didn’t think you one to play the martyr as well.”

Valjean looked baffled by Javert’s wrath; Javert found that made him all the angrier. He leaned closer so that their noses nearly touched, and Javert could see the new lines that the past few months had carved into the other man’s skin.  
      
Valjean’s watery eyes blinked. “Javert, I am no saint or martyr,” he said, sounding even more confused.  “I don't understand why you persist--”  
      
"Answer my question," Javert said tersely.

Frustration replaced the confusion then, and Valjean’s lips pressed together in a frown. “I don't answer to you,” he said, his ravaged voice nevertheless firm. His frown deepened as Javert roared one of his horrible laughs.  
      
“You do not answer to me? Perhaps not, but you _do_ have something that belongs to me.” Javert watched bafflement return to Valjean’s expression and nearly swore. One of his fists dropped down to smack against his thigh, hard enough that he gritted his teeth and knew he would be waking up to a bruise the following morning. “My soul!” he hissed. “Do you think so little of me then? The thought of denying me my chance to reclaim that never crossed your foolish mind?”

Valjean made a small, wheezing sound in the back of his throat. It took Javert a moment to realize that Valjean was laughing.

“You are angry because if I die, you cannot buy back your soul? Javert.” His name sounded odd in Valjean’s cracked, broken voice. The syllables were softened by amusement even as Valjean struggled for breath after each word. “I am no priest or bishop to claim your soul for God or life. I did not buy your soul. I said what I needed to so that you would step off that parapet. Your soul….” Perspiration dripped down Valjean’s face and he took in a ragged breath. “Your soul is yours, and has always been yours.”

Javert wrestled with both his reaction and response for a moment. He was torn between displeasure that Valjean was laughing at him, and relief that at least some color had returned to Valjean’s face in his mirth. The faint pink in the other man’s cheeks diminished somewhat his earlier air of being minutes away from death. Javert settled for a curl of his lips that could have been either a smile or frown. “My soul--” he began to argue, not quite certain how he would proceed but certain that he must argue somehow. He stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps.

The portress bustled in, introducing the doctor in a hushed whisper and with a half-fearful look at Javert. The doctor immediately examined Valjean, feeling his pulse, peering intently at his eyes and tongue, and questioning him in a quiet voice which Valjean answered just as softly.

“Well? What must be done to recover his strength?” Javert demanded when the inspection had concluded.

The doctor appeared to study both Javert and Valjean for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. At last he seemed to come to a decision, shaking his head a little as his expression cleared. “Well, getting him to eat would be an excellent start,” he answered in the dry manner of one who was equally exasperated by Valjean’s folly. “I am told he has had nothing but water and a few bites of bread for nearly a fortnight.”

“I haven't been hungry,” Valjean murmured when Javert turned to glower at him. He plucked at the bedspread and did not meet Javert’s eyes. His remark might have been apologetic if not for the slightly petulant tone.  

“Start with broth and some bread,” the doctor advised. “After a few days he will be able to manage heartier meals. Get him up and walking. Exercise will help.” He peered around the dimly lit room and made a moue of distaste. “Get those windows open and air out the room a bit. This stale air does him no favors. But keep the windows shut at night and that fireplace well-lit; he cannot survive the chill at this point.”  

“Prepare some broth,” Javert ordered the portress. She dropped a hasty curtsy and then quit the room. He turned back towards the doctor. “Anything else?”

The doctor’s gaze lingered on Valjean and then turned back towards Javert. He tapped a hand against his chin, frowned, and darted another doubtful glance at Valjean. “Perhaps we should speak in private,” he said.

“You are already discussing me as though I cannot hear you,” Valjean remarked in resignation. “Why cease now?”

“You lost the chance to speak on your own behalf when you stopped eating,” Javert growled. When he looked at Valjean, it was in time to see Valjean dip his head in the manner of a fencer acknowledging a well-placed hit. Javert cleared his throat. “Very well, doctor, let us speak out in the hall.”

“You know the person he is grieving for,” the doctor said without preamble once Javert had shut the door behind them.

“Yes.”

“Can that person be brought here?”

Javert thought of the way Cosette had clasped her throat and nearly wept in her urgency to know that her father was well, of the alarm on Valjean’s face when he'd thought Cosette might be here to witness him in such a pitiable condition. “She can, but I think it would do more harm than good until we have gotten a few meals in him,” he said slowly. “If they saw each other now, it would only distress them both.”

The doctor inclined his head. “You seem to know those involved far better than I, monsieur inspector. I will trust your judgment. Follow my instructions to the letter, and I will return in a week. If he is better, perhaps then you can fetch her.”

“Agreed,” Javert said.

The doctor departed.

Javert found himself staring at Valjean’s door for a long moment, his thoughts floundering. He was torn between exasperation and what might have called trepidation. He had a sudden horror of opening the door again to find Valjean dead, a ridiculous thought that nevertheless made his palms sweat and his fingers curl into fists. 

He opened the door to find that Valjean had propped himself up on an elbow and was watching the door with a curious expression, half-hopeful, half-fearful. "Javert," he said. The breathlessness was back in his voice. "Cosette...you said that she sent you to find me?"

"Yes."

Valjean's expression brightened and a hint of liveliness returned to his features. "Am I forgiven then? May I see her?" he said, almost to himself. His eyes still peered in Javert's direction but Valjean no longer seemed to see him, his wondering gaze fixed on something that made him smile in pained joy. "And her husband?" he continued eagerly. "Did he say I was forgiven?"

"Her husband wasn't with her," Javert said, puzzled. "She said she had come to me without his knowledge."

The light went from Valjean's face as though Javert had doused it with water. He fell back against the pillow, his sudden burst of strength fled. "Of course," he said softly, the words soft and hopeless. He made another hoarse sound in his throat that might have been laughter if it didn't sound more like a sob.

Javert stared. He had only answered honestly, but his response seemed to have broken something in Valjean, stolen some small vestige of hope that Valjean had cherished. He almost swore he could see the life ebbing from Valjean's eyes as the other man closed his eyes and turned his head away. 

“What have you done that needs forgiveness, other than hide yourself away from one who cares for you?” Javert asked without thinking. The words seemed to hang in the air as he froze in place, a little astonished at his own query. Was the slate wiped clean then, he wondered, all Valjean’s past crimes absolved through his acts of mercy? Had the convict known as 24601 been supplanted forever by this strange union of Valjean and M. Madeleine and M. Fauchelevent? Could and should Javert now treat him only as the man who saved him from the Seine these twelve months past rather than the jailbird he had chased off and on for a third of his life? 

He marveled at his thoughts, his mind overwhelmed with confusion. He felt almost as though he stood once more upon the parapet, that he peered into the shadows of oblivion rather than into Valjean's dimly lit antechamber where two candlesticks sputtered and cast shadows upon Valjean's careworn features. Javert hesitated in the doorway, his discomfort and confusion increasing as Valjean raised his head and peered at him with an unreadable look. 

"I told Marius the truth of my past," Valjean whispered, having to take in a short breath every other word. "He doesn't approve of my contact with Cosette." Another shudder passed through him, pain and misery twisting his features. When he spoke again, that earlier brokenness had returned to his voice. "It is better."

"Is that why you starve yourself? You think that Cosette is safer with you dead?" Javert asked, choosing his words carefully even as he stood at the entrance, unable to step forward but equally unable to retreat. 

Valjean's smile was pained. "I don't wish for death, Javert. Suicide is a sin. But I ask you this: is she not safer without me? What would happen to her if any discovered she was raised by a convict who broke parole?”

Javert examined that response with all the intensity of a jeweler studying a rare stone for flaws. He found his mind settled somewhat by his focus on this exchange rather than the uneasy examination of his own thoughts. After a moment, Javert folded his arms against his chest and nodded to himself. “Of all the foolish things I have heard you say, Valjean, I believe that is the most absurd.”

“Absurd?” Valjean echoed, staring. “You cannot believe the knowledge that she was raised by me wouldn't ruin--”

“And who would disclose your background?” Javert asked. “Who knows of your past that would tell all of Paris?”

“Cosette’s husband,” Valjean said, but Javert spoke over him.

“He would not do that to your daughter. If he would tell anyone, he is a fool, because losing you would break his wife’s heart. Anyone who has spent even a moment in your company can see the true affection you have for each other.”

“The police,” Valjean said, a certain thickness creeping into his voice.

“Only I know you are even in Paris,” Javert said. “If any other officers think of you, which is doubtful, they believe you hidden away in some small town or village outside the city as you did as M. Madeleine.”

Valjean looked puzzled. “But you must have told them I saved you at the barricade, surely.”

Javert, who had spoken so confidently a moment earlier, faltered. His lips turned downward and he tugged at his whiskers before he could consider the damning nature of the nervous gesture. He forced his hand down. "When I explained my escape from the barricade, I told M. Gisquet that a revolutionary had spared my life. I made no mention of you," he said brusquely, hoping Valjean would let the matter lie. 

He should have known better than to indulge hope, for Valjean continued to stare at him, astonishment on his face and in his voice. "But you have been an honest man, Javert. Wasn't that a lie?"

"Not a lie, precisely," Javert said, uncomfortably giving voice to the weak platitude he had attempted to console himself with that day in M. Gisquet’s office. It felt no less trite now than it had then, though he did not let that sentiment color his words. "You were aiding the revolutionaries. The law would have tarred you with the same brush. I simply did not tell the whole truth.”

He was not entirely surprised when Valjean seemed dissatisfied by that answer, for it was an answer that had little surety to it. If he were wholly honest with both himself and Valjean, pride and other priorities had been greater factors in his partial truth to Monsieur Gisquet. His mind already reeling with confusion that Valjean had spared his life, Javert had been unable to bear acknowledging a known convict as his savior and enduring his superior’s reaction. And then there had been the matter of the destruction of the barricades and the hunting down of the surviving troublemakers, duties far more important at the moment than the reemergence of one old jailbird. 

Thankfully, Valjean didn’t press the point. He said only, fixing a grave look upon Javert, “Perhaps you are right about the police and Pontmercy, but Thénardier knows who I am.”

“Thénardier,” Javert said with a contemptuous curl of his lips. If Valjean had convinced him that some men and women could bridge that gap between criminal and virtuous, then it must be said that Thénardier had only intensified Javert’s belief that others were born treacherous and only grew more so over time. "Surely no one would listen to the words of scum like him."

Valjean regarded Javert steadily. "You believed the word of Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille." 

The remark stung, as Javert was certain that had been Valjean's intention. Despite himself, he colored, embarrassment warming his face. He dipped his chin, unconscious of the fact that doing so meant he sunk further behind his hat and cravat, so that his features were all but lost to Valjean's sight. "True enough," he said after a moment, grimacing. "But there has been no sighting of Thénardier since I pursued him to the sewers and found you instead." 

“That doesn't mean he is gone,” Valjean said. “It is an easy thing to vanish into the streets of Paris and not be found.”

“I shall trust your judgment on that,” Javert said a trifle dryly, and then turned at the timid knock on the door.

“Here is the broth, Monsieur Javert.” The portress spoke timorously, approaching him and holding out the bowl and spoon with hands that shook a little. 

Javert acknowledged her with a grunt and accepted the bowl and spoon. He turned back to Valjean. “Now, are you going to eat, or do I have to force the broth down your throat?” He kept his voice deceptively mild.

"I can feed myself," Valjean said, though there was a tinge of uncertainty in his voice. Javert did not wonder at the doubt, remembering Valjean's struggle to sit upright. Even as that thought passed through Javert's mind, Valjean slowly hauled himself up into a sitting position, weakly nodding his thanks as the portress swooped in to adjust his pillow.   

“I am keeping the pot warm, so if Monsieur Fauchelevent needs anything more, it will be ready for him,” said the portress. She wiped her hands on her dress, ducked her head a little. "If you need me, messieurs, I will be downstairs." 

"Thank you," Valjean said, offering her a small but sincere smile. 

She dropped another awkward curtsy and backed quickly from the room.

Javert did not watch her go. Instead he set the bowl and spoon upon a small round table nearby. He then moved the table so that it pressed against the side of Valjean's bed. "Can you reach the bowl?" he asked, careful to keep his tone nonjudgmental. If he were the one bedridden and Valjean the one staring down at  _him_ , he would be embarrassed and furious at himself for his weakness, but he was uncertain if Valjean's pride pricked at him as Javert's would. 

“I can,” Valjean said, holding the spoon with fingers that trembled slightly. He regarded the bowl for a long moment, his lips turned downward, the image of unhappy resignation. It was clear that he was steeling himself to force down the broth, that even contemplating the act was bitterly distasteful to him.

Javert found he did not care overmuch for Valjean's aversion for sustenance. “I will feed you myself,” he warned once more when Valjean continued to hesitate. He was startled by the brief upward slant of Valjean’s lips and the other man’s amused murmur of, “I do not doubt it.”

He watched as Valjean slowly took a spoonful of the broth and forced it to his lips. Valjean swallowed, his expression unchanging even as his throat worked to swallow the soup. His hand trembled as he sipped at the broth, but miraculously none of the liquid spilled onto the covers. 

Valjean ate in silence, and Javert, not wishing to distract Valjean from the food, said nothing.

It was only when the spoon scrapped the bottom of the bowl that Valjean spoke again. “Finished,” he said with a great deal of relief. He started to set the spoon upon the table, then grimaced as a tremor shuddered through him. His hand convulsed, his fingers opened, and the spoon fell to the floor with a loud clatter. 

Javert instinctively knelt, reaching for the spoon which had fallen almost under the bed. When he looked up, still on his knees as he brushed dirt from the spoon with a flick of his thumb, he caught sight of Valjean's expression shifting. It was too late to catch that first fleeting emotion, much less define it, for an instant later Valjean's expression had settled into lines of neutrality. 

"Tell the portress that she doesn’t need to keep the broth warm," Valjean said. Javert didn't think his own expression changed, but Valjean's forehead creased and he added with a touch of asperity, "I will not be hungry for a few more hours. Keeping the broth warm for that long is foolish." 

“Of course,” Javert said, rising to his feet. He took the bowl and spoon down to the kitchen where the portress stood stirring the broth. “He says you can put away the rest of the broth for later,” he said, remembering his earlier rudeness in calling her "thou" and catching himself before he could do so again. He watched the woman start and clutch at her chest.

“Monsieur inspector! You walk as quiet as a cat!” She laughed loudly, her nervous gaze darting to the empty bowl. Relief intensified her smile. "He ate, then? I am glad of it, monsieur. He is too good a man to die that way." She paused, and then added quickly, "I tried to get him to let me fetch his daughter, Inspector, but he would not hear of it. I thought it was a bad match, that perhaps he and Mademoiselle Fauch-- I mean, that he and Monsieur Pontmercy had quarreled, perhaps."  
  
There was an inquisitive gleam in her eyes that Javert did not care for. "It is a family matter," he said tersely.   
  
The portress waited for a moment, and then, when it was obvious that Javert was not about to gossip, she tilted her head and studied him. "Do you need anything, monsieur? I can get you some broth and a bit of bread if you're hungry."  
  
"I am fine," he said, "but thank you." 

The portress hesitated another moment, but this time there was no curious look on her face, only a concerned frown. “Monsieur Javert,” she said, a little softer than before. “Monsieur Fauchelevent is a good man. If the doctor has anything else for me to do besides prepare more meals for the old gentleman, please tell me.”  
         
Javert shook his head. There was still a touch of curiosity in her query, but at least this time her intention seemed to be to help rather than to meddle in Valjean’s affairs. "There were no new instructions, madame. He needs food, fresh air, exercise. There is no trick to opening his window, I suppose?"  
         
"No trick at all, monsieur, just move the latch and push,” the portress assured him. “And I'll be certain to close it when it gets to be evening.” She paused. “Unless you are staying?"  
         
Javert narrowed his eyes, certain that she was prying again, though he didn’t know her aim. "Staying?"  
      
“I have other tenants, Monsieur Javert,” she said in a peremptory tone. “As much as I admire Monsieur Fauchelevent, I cannot spend all my time caring for him.”

“I am not a nursemaid,” Javert objected, wondering if he’d mistaken the gleam of curiosity for a look of madness in the woman's eyes. He looked pointedly at her as he adjusted his hat, knowing he looked every inch a policeman. 

“No, you are not,” the portress agreed, apparently unimpressed by the gesture. “But you’ve managed in a half-hour what I couldn’t in a fortnight. He’ll eat even if he doesn’t want to, with your eye on him.”

As much as he hated to admit it, the woman had a point. Javert could see all too clearly his return the next morning; Valjean having refused breakfast or to leave his bed, sunken back into melancholy. Javert did not tug at his whiskers, but it was a very near thing. Instead he glowered in contemplation for a moment and then asked, "And where exactly do you expect me to sleep?"  
  
"Monsieur Fauchelevent has three bedchambers in his rooms, Monsieur Javert. His own, his daughter's, and their servant's, all empty now that he's moved his bed into the antechamber, heavens knows why. I could bring up some fresh sheets tonight."  
  
"I suppose that will do," Javert said, though he felt a strange reluctance to agree. He found he did not want to see Valjean's expression when Javert announced he was staying overnight, did not wish to learn whether Valjean would laugh or protest. He wasn't certain which reaction would be worse, though both possible reactions made him scowl darkly after he'd left the kitchen.

He did not stomp his way into Valjean’s room like a child in a temper, but he did close the door a little harder than he'd intended. He avoided Valjean’s questioning gaze. “I will be staying the night,” Javert stated, striding over to push aside the curtains and throw open the window He glared down at the empty street. The midday sun was bright enough that he found himself squinting and ducking his head so that the brim of his hat shielded his eyes. “I don't trust that woman to look after you properly.”

“'That woman' took it upon herself to send for the doctor a few days ago,” Valjean said mildly. "And she would have fetched Cosette for me if I'd wished." Though Javert did not turn to look, Valjean's tone said he _had_ wished it, very much.  
  
Javert stalked over to the arm-chair positioned next to the fireplace and sat down. Now he could bring himself to look again at Valjean, for the other man had made no objection to his staying. Nor had Javert heard any laughter. "You _will_ eat supper," Javert informed him.  
  
"Yes, Inspector," said Valjean, and the answer might have been meek were it not for the way his lips twitched and betrayed him. Valjean shifted against the pillow, a shadow of pain darkening his face. After a moment, he spoke again. "And how will we spend our time until then?"

Javert blinked, and knew his expression must be one of stupefaction, for Valjean’s lips betrayed him once more, parting in a weak but amused smile. “I have no idea,” Javert said. “How do you spend your afternoons?”  
  
"I pray," Valjean said.  
  
Javert, in whom faith in the Almighty had been superseded by certainty in order and justice and who even now did not quite know what to make of a merciful God, winced a little at the thought of having to watch Valjean pray for the rest of the afternoon.

"And what do _you_ do?" Valjean countered, having obviously seen his grimace.    
  
"Generally I am on patrol. After my shift ends, I compose a personal account of the day's events in order to remember details that might aid in future police work."  
  
Valjean muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "I am not surprised."

“So we shall not pray together, and I have nothing to write about,” Javert said, ignoring Valjean’s mumbled remark. "We shall have to think of something else, unless you wish to sit in silence for the next few hours." He sank back against the arm-chair, half-closing his eyes in thought. What did he know of this man, truly? He did not know Valjean’s interests, other than his devout nature, his inclination to play savior, and his devotion to his daughter. Javert had no ideas to offer.  
   
"Cosette left some books behind," Valjean said suddenly. "They are in her bedchamber. Her old bedchamber," he corrected himself, and Javert opened his eyes to catch Valjean’s frown.  
  
Javert grimaced. " _Books_?" he repeated, a trifle cross at the mere thought. Of course Valjean would keep a library; Javert recalled one of his sergeants telling him how Monsieur le Maire seemed particularly zealous about books and had acquired quite a collection.    
  
For his part, Javert despised books, even tracts on law. He endured reading the newspaper in certain circumstances for particulars he would not otherwise have heard on the streets, and the occasional law volume for education, but he had never found a book that he enjoyed. Still, if it would pass the time and was not overbearingly devout and meant that he would not have to bear another moment of uncomfortable silence, he could suffer through a novel.  
  
"Yes, we have a small collection," Valjean said. He looked almost amused once more. "I am afraid her tastes lean towards the Romantics. I have attempted to press upon her a book of philosophy now and then, but she never seems to enjoy them." 

Javert grimaced once more. “Very well, let me see what I can find.” He entered Cosette’s old bedchamber, and rummaged among the book collection. Most books he immediately returned to the shelf with a shudder of distaste, but at length he found two that seemed, if not particularly enjoyable, at least suitable. He reemerged with the selected volumes.  
  
“I found your philosophical tract,” he remarked dryly, holding up  _Reveries of a Solitary Walker_ , "and a book that seemed somewhat bearable." He held up _The Red and the Black_. "I suppose since you are the invalid, you get to choose which book to read."  
  
"I suppose I do," Valjean said. "I will take _Reveries_." He accepted the slim volume with hands that barely shook, apparently somewhat fortified by the broth.

Javert settled himself back into the arm-chair and began to read. He was midway through the second chapter when he heard the quiet thump. Raising his eyes from the page, he saw that Valjean's head was bowed, the book fallen from his lap. It was only the steady rise and fall of Valjean's chest that kept Javert from alarm.

Javert studied him, his own book forgotten on his knee. An air of long illness still surrounded Valjean, one bowl of soup doing little to counteract the hollowness of his face and further signs of self-chosen starvation, but there was more vitality in his still, dreaming expression than Javert had seen when he'd first forced his way into the room. Even at rest, exhausted by the exertion of sitting upright and feeding himself, Valjean nevertheless wore the mien of one who found life a bit more agreeable than before.  
  
Javert was satisfied for the moment, although his complacency was fleeting. He turned his mind to the thought of this new responsibility. He had leave from his duties for the next two days, in which he could play at nursemaid and caretaker, but then he would be expected to report back to the station-house. What would happen then? He frowned at the thought of Valjean falling back into melancholy over the foolish notion of losing Cosette.  
  
But how to convince Valjean that he was safe from discovery? Javert saw only one way. "Something much be done about Thénardier," he muttered into the silence of the room. He stretched out his legs to let the fireplace warm his feet and bowed his head in thought.

Thénardier had disappeared like a rat into the sewers. No one had seen him emerge, but Javert had little doubt the man was still alive. Somehow that sort always tended to survive. Javert would have to drag him from whatever hole he'd hidden himself in and....  
  
And? Javert's thoughts paused. He would be well within his rights to put the man down like a dog, as Valjean had once had that same right that night at the barricade, but somehow that seemed inelegant. Javert, an artist of sorts, disliked the act of executing criminals, not because he believed executions were a sin, but because it meant that one had used up all other options and had had to resort to butchery. Perhaps he could persuade Thénardier somehow, but Thénardier was the type of man who only understood the language of money--  
  
His thoughts were interrupted once more, this time by the smell of smoke and a sudden flare of heat upon his ankle. Javert looked down and swore, shaking his leg where an ember had landed upon his trousers and caught fire. The ember was easily displaced, but Javert scowled at the scorch mark on his pant's leg.

"Cursed fireplace, cursed stoves," he snarled, softly so as not to wake Valjean, who had not stirred. He pushed the arm-chair out of range of the fireplace before he leaned forward to rub at the offending ankle and grumble under his breath.

He had let himself enjoy the warmth of the fireplace and nearly been burned. There was something to be said about avoiding indulgences, he reflected to himself, and found, strangely, that his gaze returned to Valjean's sleeping face at the thought. Javert slouched in the arm-chair and folded his arms against his chest. He supposed it  _was_ an indulgence of sorts, abandoning his duties at a day’s notice to find Valjean. Certainly he would not have done so a year and a half ago. He drummed his fingers against his thigh, winced as the forming bruise protested with a painful twinge.

He looked again to Valjean, but the other man was still fast asleep. Should Javert move him so that he was sleeping on his back rather than sitting upright? He suspected that Valjean’s back would thank him for it, but perhaps it was best to simply let Valjean rest and wake him for supper.

After a moment’s consideration, Javert rose and discarded both books upon the round table. His hands upon Valjean were careful as he eased Valjean slowly into a supine position and settled the pillow behind his head. It was a far too easy thing to accomplish, Javert thought, remembering the astonishing strength in Valjean's grip upon his arm that night at the parapet. That strength had long since fled, along with far too much weight and muscle. 

Javert frowned as Valjean shifted in his sleep, a dark thought or pain briefly creasing the other man's forehead. Valjean turned his head, first towards the window, then towards the fireplace, his lips curled back in a grimace. He softly muttered something, but Javert did not need to lean forward to understand the murmur. The longing inflection made it obvious that Valjean whispered for Cosette. 

"I still say you are a fool," Javert said aloud, keeping his voice low. "Cosette would be here in an instant if you would only allow her."

Whether it was due to the sound of his voice, which he doubted, or the mention of Cosette, which he suspected, Javert watched as Valjean's expression eased and he ceased his fitful tossing and turning. 

After another moment to make certain Valjean was calm, Javert retreated back to the arm-chair. He brought his chin to rest upon his fist, staring vaguely in the direction of Valjean, and past him, towards the window through which he could see the pale blue sky. "Now," he muttered to himself, "what is to be done about Thénardier...." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Latin translations**  
> 
>  _Flat justitia ruat coelum_ \- Let justice be done through the heavens fall  
>  _Causarum justia et misericordia_ \- For the causes of justice and mercy


	3. Valjean Gaunt, Javert Trenchant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to ailelie, who has been the best beta one could ask for. 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys the update! Hopefully I will have the final chapter posted within the next week, as long as my classes cooperate.

A knock upon the door roused Javert from his deep contemplation. He blinked, the sudden wrench of his thoughts away from the pursuit of Thénardier and to the present making his head almost whirl.

Upon the bed, Valjean hadn't stirred at the knocking. Beyond his still form and through the still-open window, Javert could see the sky beginning to deepen into a dark blue, the signal of evening.

As he felt the cool air brush against his skin, Javert’s stomach growled and reminded him that he had skipped the earlier meal the portress had offered and had, in all honesty, eaten very little of the breakfast his own landlady had prepared that morning. Javert glared at the window, a bit annoyed with himself, the irritation only increasing as hunger pangs assaulted him with surprising ferocity. Had he truly been so absorbed in his thoughts as to let the hours pass unheeded? He and Valjean had missed supper.

As Javert unfolded from his hunched-up position on the arm-chair to rise to his feet, his stiff neck and shoulders protested. He grumbled a frustrated complaint through gritted teeth, rubbing at his neck until the tense muscles relaxed, the pain diminishing to something more manageable. That accomplished, he stalked over to the window and closed it firmly. Then he moved to the antechamber's entrance to see who had interrupted his thoughts.

The portress fidgeted as he opened the door; she offered him a small, uncertain smile that he did not return. “It’s past when we usually have supper, Monsieur Javert, but when you didn't come down, I thought perhaps the old gentleman was refusing once more to eat,” she said a little apologetically. “But then my husband reminded me that Monsieur Fauchelevent has been sleeping most of the day these past few weeks, and that perhaps you hadn't wished to wake him….”

“He  _is_  sleeping,” Javert admitted. He frowned. The doctor hadn't mentioned how much rest Valjean needed, but it seemed to Javert that food for a man who had nearly starved himself to death was surely more important than an extra hour’s worth of sleep. “But he needs another meal. I will wake him now if you have some leftovers from supper.”

“Oh yes, Monsieur Javert,” said the portress with a nod. “I saved some broth for M. Fauchevelent and some potato soup for you, and a bit of bread for you both. I’ll fetch everything now.”   
  
Javert was rather relieved when his stomach didn't growl at the mere thought of soup and embarrass him. He inclined his head and watched as the portress retreated back down the stairs. He left the door ajar so that she could bring the meals inside more easily, and then returned to Valjean's bedside. "Valjean," he said quietly, shaking Valjean's shoulder. "Valjean, it is time for supper."

Valjean opened his eyes, bewildered. For a moment he only stared at Javert, his expression tense and frightened, a hunted cast to his face. Then he blinked, remembrance banishing the confusion and alarm. He even managed a twist of his lips that was half-smile, half-grimace. "Supper, you said," he murmured, and then struggled back into a sitting position. "Let me guess. More broth?"

"For you," Javert said. "Your portress is bringing  _me_  potato soup. Just think, if you hadn't been foolishly starving yourself, you could be enjoying the soup as well."

"You obviously haven't tasted her cooking yet." Valjean laughed, weakly but with genuine amusement, at Javert's expression. "I'm not serious. She is an excellent cook." 

“Well, good,” Javert said, not certain what to make of Valjean’s jest. He settled for sitting back down on the arm-chair. He fidgeted, leaning forward to smooth a wrinkle from his pant's leg, the one unmarred by the fireplace. "The portress said you have been sleeping most of the day away like a cat," he remarked, keeping his eyes fixed upon his pant's leg as the stubborn fabric refused to lie correctly across his knee. "That surely cannot be healthy."

Valjean didn't answer for a moment. When he spoke, his voice strained to match Javert's nonchalant tone. "I found that sleeping makes the time pass quickly. And I doubt the portress called me a cat."

"She might as well have. Sleeping most of the day! Between sleep and prayer, I suppose I should not be surprised you are  _far_  too busy to actually eat properly," Javert said, a bit of bite entering his voice.

He thought again of Valjean's hypocrisy in denying Javert his chosen death and then attempting a suicide of his own, albeit a much slower one; he found that he was gripping his own knee tightly, his knuckles white with tension. He moved his hand to the arm-rest and forced himself to relax as Valjean said a little testily, "I have already agreed to eat and follow the doctor's orders, Javert. Do you have to snarl at me still?" 

"Why not? You annoy me and always have," Javert said promptly, and was further vexed by Valjean's low laughter.

"Yes, so you have said." Valjean paused, coughing a little, and added, "I must admit, I always found you--"

"Your supper, messieurs," the portress announced cheerfully, bustling into the room.

Javert resisted the urge to swear. His mind was one that questioned, that probed, that tore into the contradictions in a suspect's story like a falcon tore into its prey. True, his inquisitiveness tended to vanish when it came to anything outside seeing justice-- and now, the occasional act of mercy-- done, but at this particular moment Javert was overcome by curiosity. He all but burned from it, this desire to know what Valjean had thought of him. He considered the expressions he had seen Valjean wear regarding him in the past, when Valjean had been in Toulon, when he been a convict on the run, when he had been Monsieur le Maire, when he had saved Javert at the barricade, when he had stood before the parapet and seized Javert’s arm.

Thinking on those looks, Javert couldn't begin to guess what Valjean had been about to say. He didn't know what Valjean had thought of him over the years. He did not know if he truly wanted to know, except that the want for information made his hands clench into fists.

Oblivious to the fact that she had interrupted them, the portress set Valjean's plate and the plate of bread on the round table. She turned then towards Javert and hesitated. "Shall I fetch one of the tables from the bedchambers, Inspector?"

"No, the arm-rest will work just as well," Javert said, impatient for her to be gone. He pretended not to notice the woman's dubious expression.

"Thank you, madame," Valjean said, offering her a small smile.

She beamed back. "It was no trouble at all, monsieur! Now eat! I will be glad to see you well and back on your feet again." The portress set the plate on Javert’s arm-rest and departed as quickly as she had come, closing the door quietly behind her.

Much to Javert’s frustration, Valjean immediately began to eat, breaking off a piece of bread and dipping it into his broth before bringing the bread to his mouth. Javert didn’t quite snarl but it was a near thing. He watched as Valjean silently broke off another piece of bread. Was Valjean going to simply drop the conversation and never finish that sentence? He certainly wasn't going to _ask_ what Valjean had thought of him over the years, Javert thought, bristling a little at the idea.  
  
"Aren't you going to eat?" Valjean asked, his tone too mild to be wholly genuine. Javert blinked, realizing he'd been staring at Valjean as he ate. Valjean's lips had turned down at the corners. "You can see for yourself I am eating. You don't have to watch to ensure that I am not hiding every other piece of bread under my pillow."

Javert scowled. “That wasn’t what I--” he began to argue, then realized that saying he hadn't been watching Valjean eat would surely lead to Valjean asking _why_ Javert had been staring at him. He bit back the rest of the sentence, and settled for focusing his gaze upon his own bowl. He stirred the soup a little violently and then swore under his breath when some of the soup splashed out onto the arm-chair, just missing the cuff of his coat.  
  
"She _did_ offer you a table," Valjean said, and Javert didn't have to look up to know that now Valjean was fighting a smile.

"And then I would have splattered the tablecloth instead," Javert grumbled. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed ineffectually at the spots. At least the soup had been pale. Surely it wouldn't stain too badly. "Doubtless your landlady would have still scolded me."  
      
“Since spills are the purpose of tablecloth, I doubt the good woman would have been too upset," Valjean pointed out, and Javert grunted in grudging acknowledgment.

Still rubbing at the stains, Javert didn't realize that Valjean was hesitating until Valjean cleared his throat and added slowly, with a certain careful inflection, "I suppose now is as good a time as ever to point out that if you’re staying the night you might wish to take off your coat and hat and get comfortable."

When Javert looked up, Valjean was tearing off another piece of bread and no longer looking in his direction. He found himself curiously reluctant to agree. "I suppose so." There was no reason to feel strange about taking off his coat and his hat and removing his cravat in front of Valjean, a man who had already seen him restrained in a martingale and at his very lowest, and yet the notion disconcerted him somewhat. He rose, mindful not to bump his bowl with a careless elbow, and started to remove his hat. He paused, struck by a thought. "Did you have a preference for which bedchamber?"  
  
Valjean looked at him then, confusion creasing his brow. "Which bedchamber?"

"Yes," Javert said a little impatiently. "Your portress said there were three, although obviously your old bedchamber no longer has a bed. Do you have a preference?"  
  
Valjean continued to stare, and Javert wondered at his odd expression. Surely it was not a strange question! Apparently Valjean thought it was, for the other man asked, "Why would I have a preference?"  
  
Javert raised an eyebrow. "So it is not odd to think of me sleeping in your daughter's room?" he asked, allowing sarcasm to drip from each syllable.  
  
Valjean looked momentarily as though he'd bitten into something sour. "I take your point."  
  
"Then your servant's room," Javert concluded. At Valjean's slow nod, Javert went into the chosen bedchamber. Unlike Cosette's room, which still held traces of her presence, it was as though the servant's room had never been used before.  Nothing of the unknown woman's presence remained, for which he was almost grateful.  
  
Javert carefully removed and folded his coat, putting it and his cravat in an empty drawer. He set his hat atop the dresser. It was only then that he thought of the next morning and frowned in consternation. He had worn the same clothes two days in a row before, during long, relentless pursuits of criminals, but he had loathed the necessity. And he had found that, though he could afford only a few articles of clothing on his salary, his clothes lasted longer if he wore them on alternating days. But then there was the matter of the scorch marks on his pant's leg, he thought, scowling down at the offending damage; these pants would need to be mended. Javert nodded to himself. He would have to fetch a new set of clothes in the morning somehow.  
  
When he came back into the antechamber, Valjean had finished his broth and was drinking water from a jug with still shaky but steadier hands. Valjean glanced at him, his expression unreadable, and then refocused his attention upon the jug. "How did you enjoy the book?" he asked in an absent tone of one trying to make conversation.  
  
Javert allowed himself a moment to silently snarl about Valjean having forgotten about their interrupted exchange before he gave up on knowing Valjean’s thoughts of him. "I gave up on it." He added, not quite sarcastic but with an edge to his voice that Valjean would probably take as such, "And did you enjoy the page or two you read before you fell asleep?"

Valjean’s eyes narrowed, but to Javert’s surprise, he didn’t answer with an angry retort. Instead, he lifted the jug of water to his lips and took a few slow sips. Two decent meals and the water had done him well; his voice was not half so weak or rough when he spoke after a moment. "Truce."

“What?"  
      
“Truce,” Valjean repeated. “If you will stop scolding me like a fishwife, I will take the blame for the soup stains.”  
      
Javert snorted. “Do you think I'm a fool to agree to that? You get the better part of that deal by far, Valjean. I am not frightened of your landlady.”

“What, then?” Valjean countered in exasperation. Javert had the impression that if the other man had had the strength for it, Valjean would have thrown up his hands and paced the room. "What will convince you to stop scolding me every few minutes?"

"Agree that, if the doctor allows it, you will let me send for your daughter next week," Javert said promptly. He hadn't known what he was going to say until he'd said it, but he was rather pleased with the bargain. 

Valjean, for his part, looked torn. Longing and despair warred for dominance upon his drawn features. "I wish to see Cosette with all my heart," he said in a low voice. "But her husband doesn't wish for us--"

"I don't care a fig about Pontmercy," Javert said before Valjean could slip back completely into melancholy. There was already the first hint of that old resignation in Valjean's voice that Javert loathed with an intensity that startled him. "Did you forget I have met your daughter and know that she has a mind of her own? Let her make her own decisions."

A small smile tugged at Valjean's lips. "What you say is true," he admitted. "Once she learned confidence, she has never had want for opinion, or ever hesitated to speak her mind."

Javert made a gesture with his hand, a silent 'My point precisely.' He sat back down on the arm-chair, took up his spoon once more. This time he was careful as he stirred the soup. "We are agreed then. I will no longer remind you of your foolish attempt at martyrdom if you agree to see Cosette as soon as the doctor gives his consent."

"That is not how I would phrase it," Valjean muttered dryly, "but yes, we are agreed."

Javert tasted his soup, well-satisfied with the day's accomplishments. Valjean would eat properly, and tomorrow he would exercise, and in perhaps a week's time he would reunite with his daughter and put aside for good this foolish self-exile and desire for death. 

He took another swallow of the soup which, as Valjean had promised, was excellent. Far better than his own landlady's cooking, which, while serviceable, did not encourage one's appetite. He wondered if the portress made decent coffee. 

Javert raised his gaze from his bowl to find Valjean watching him with a half-lidded gaze and faint, uncertain frown. Javert raised an eyebrow, hiding his own confusion behind a smirk. "Are we taking turns in staring at one another? Do tell me when it's my turn again," he remarked as a faint pink colored Valjean's face. 

"No," Valjean said quickly. Too quickly- it was a tone of one who has been caught out at something he hadn’t wanted noticed. It was a tone that made Javert's eyes narrow. "No," Valjean continued, still a little flustered. "It is only...a trifle strange, you sitting bareheaded in my arm-chair, eating soup, smiling. I admit, sometimes I suspect that the past few hours have been a fever-dream." 

Javert had been smiling? He hadn't realized. His mouth instinctively flattened into a frown. "I am not a figment of your imagination," he said stiffly, and Valjean made a sound in the back of his throat that might have been a laugh or a sigh. 

"No, you are not," Valjean agreed. He hesitated. "I suppose I should thank you, for coming here and--"

Javert found himself leaning forward, his elbow missing the bowl by an inch. "No," he said, a little surprised at his own urgency. "No gratitude, Valjean. I am here because your daughter asked me to find you, and because I will earn back my soul."

Valjean shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. "I told you before, I do not own your soul."

"And I tell you that you do and I mean to buy it back." Javert spoke with a certainty he did not entirely feel. He stared Valjean down until Valjean, who'd opened his mouth to argue, sighed and leaned back against his pillow in defeat. Javert ate the rest of his soup and a piece of bread in silence, ignoring the way Valjean continued to stare at him, his brow creased, fingers plucking at the bed covers. 

"I will take the bowls back down to the kitchen," Javert said once he'd finished. "Did you need more water?"

"No," Valjean said, though he looked as if he wanted to say more. When he didn’t say anything else after a minute, Javert took his leave. 

The portress was not in the kitchen but an unfamiliar man sat at the table, drinking beer and eating a wedge of cheese and bread. The man looked up. "You'll be the inspector then," he said, the deep-voiced observation indifferent. He nodded, half to himself. "Marie said you might be down soon. Monsieur Fauchelevent is finally eating, she said."

"Yes," Javert said. 

The porter, who seemed to have bequeathed his share of curiosity to his wife, just nodded again and resumed eating. "She'll be up with the fresh sheets in a half-hour," he said after a mouthful of cheese and a swig of beer. "Said you were to tell me if you needed anything else." 

"No, the sheets will suffice," Javert said, and, when the man said nothing more, returned to Valjean's rooms. 

Valjean had picked up  _Reveries_  once more and was squinting at a page, the twilight outside and the flickering candles doubtless making it nearly impossible to read. 

"The candles need replacing," Javert observed, and Valjean nearly dropped the book. 

"Oh, yes, I suppose they do," Valjean said, hiding his surprise badly. He gestured at a dresser in the far corner of the room. "In the bottom drawer there are some spare candles."

When Javert opened the drawer, he found the wax candles as well as some paper. He had observed a pen and some ink on top of the dresser, but now he thought of a use for them. Once he had replaced the candles, he returned to the dresser, taking a sheet of paper, the pen, and the ink. 

"What are you doing?" Valjean asked. 

"I am writing a note to your daughter," Javert said, and watched some of the color drain from Valjean's face. He snapped, a little irritably, "I plan to say that I have been searching for you and have hopes that she will be reunited with you within a week. I will not tell her how I found you half-dead. There is no reason to upset her further."

"Says the man who brought Marius to Rue des Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6. and frightened the entire household by announcing he was dead," Valjean said dryly, though his expression displayed some relief. 

Javert pursed his lips, remembering how motionless and pale the boy had been, laid out like a corpse between Javert and Valjean as the carriage took them to Rue Filles-du Calvaire. “I am still astonished he survived,” he said, turning his attention to the paper. He frowned when he realized that the point of the pen had curled up and the ink was nearly dry. "When was the last time you wrote a letter?" he muttered, not expecting an answer and unsurprised when Valjean didn't give him one. 

He watered with the ink with a few drops from the jug, until the ink was usable. Then he wrote in his slow, precise way:

_"To Madame Pontmercy, of Rue Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6,_

_I am writing to update you on my search for your father. I believe that I will be able to deliver him to you within a week. If this length of time changes, I will write again._

_Should you have any questions or further information you think might help, you may always leave a message at the station-house where we last spoke. Give your letter to a sergeant by the name of Moreau; he will see that it reaches me._

_JAVERT,_

_Inspector,_

_June 15, 1833."_

Finished, he laid the paper on the table to dry. 

Valjean almost immediately leaned over, squinting a little as he read. Javert watched his lips move, unconsciously shaping each word. "The letter raises more questions than it answers," Valjean said once he was done reading. He sounded amused. "I think your man Moreau will deliver a five-page letter to you, filled with questions from Cosette." 

Javert frowned. He had not considered that Cosette might not accept the note's contents and instead would demand details. "Well, I cannot tell her the whole truth," he pointed out. "She would surely rush here, and be upset at your current health."

Valjean made a face. "Yes," he agreed, a little dour. "After how _you_ raged at the sight of me, I do not want to contemplate how _Cosette_ would react."

"After how _I_ raged? You make it sound as though I wasn't justified," Javert began, a trace of heat creeping into his voice. Then he gritted his teeth, forced back the rest of his words before he found himself arguing with Valjean again. "But enough. We made the bargain. I won't speak of your fool-- of your choices, and you will follow the doctor's orders and see Cosette in a week."

Valjean said nothing for a moment, his expression conflicted, somewhere between irritated and pleased. He settled for nodding and changing the topic, which Javert suspected was probably for the best. "So you did not enjoy  _The Red and the Black_?"

"I cannot remember a word of the two chapters I read," Javert said frankly, and Valjean chuckled. 

"Perhaps  _Reveries_ will suit us both better," he suggested. He hesitated, and Javert wondered once more at his countenance, which was almost nervous. "I have been struggling to read by candlelight." Valjean spoke slowly, like a man choosing his words with care. "I remember that your eyesight seemed to be better in the dark than mine. Would you read the first chapter aloud?" 

Javert stared, wholly at a loss. Certainly, if one had told him this time last year or even this time a fortnight ago that he would be sitting by Jean Valjean's bedside, being asked to read him a bedtime story, he would have laughed his noiseless laugh and thought the person mad. "I doubt my voice will make Rousseau's writing pleasant to the ear," he said after a moment, the words slow and awkward. 

"I do not expect a show," Valjean said, still in that same cautious tone. "I only thought it might be more bearable than reading  _The Red and the Black_." 

"Very well," Javert said, surprising himself and Valjean, if Valjean's slightly wide eyes were anything to go by. He plucked the book from the table, opened it to the first page before he could second-guess his decision. 

Aloud, he read, 

_“Here I am, then, alone on the earth, having neither brother, neighbor, friend, or society but myself--”_

Javert stopped, frowning, and risked a glance at Valjean. Valjean's expression was untroubled, his look merely attentive. Apparently the words did not wound him or invoke unhappy memories. Javert cleared his throat and continued, speaking slowly and with precision.

_"The most sociable and the most friendly of mankind is proscribed from the rest by universal consent. They have fought in the refinements of their malice to find out that torment which would most afflict my tender heart; they have violently broken every tie which held me to them: I had loved mankind in spite of themselves...."_

 

* * *

 

Javert awoke in unfamiliar bed. The sheets smelled of strange soap, and there were two pillows instead of his usual one. He rolled over, squinting at his surroundings but not unduly alarmed. His occupation had long since inured him to long travel and awaking in strange places. It took a moment for him to remember the events of the past day, the memories returning slowly at first and then all in a rush, images of Valjean's wan visage darting through his mind. He sat upright, scratching at his jaw and blinking sleep from his eyes.

"Tell me your landlady makes decent coffee," he said as he stumbled out of the bedchamber and into the antechamber, or at least tried to say. His throat was dry and the words came out scratchy and hoarse.    
  
Valjean, already sitting upright and drinking from his water jug, stared a little. "I wouldn't know. I don't drink it," he answered, and Javert let out an involuntary growl. He noticed, with some resentment, that Valjean looked amused by his irritation.

Javert did not stomp his way down to the kitchen, but it was a very near thing, his stocking-clad feet soundless upon the steps. As soon as he pushed open the door to the kitchen, the smell of coffee thankfully reached him.  
  
"Monsieur Javert, I was just preparing breakfast since Monsieur Fauchelevent usually rises about now," the portress began, her voice trailing off as Javert ignored her in favor of staring greedily at the coffee pot. "I-I'll get you a mug, shall I? Monsieur Fauchelevent never takes coffee--"  
  
"So he explained," Javert said, and did not quite snatch the full mug from her hands. A few sips later, his sleep-fogged mind cleared enough for him to ask, "What type of breakfast does he usually take?"  
  
"A very simple one, inspector: toast and water. I could make something else, if you prefer--"  
  
"No, toast and water is fine, though a wedge of cheese wouldn't go amiss. And some jam, if you have some."  
  
"Cheese and jam, yes, monsieur. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."  
  
Javert, cradling his mug, returned upstairs to find Valjean watching the door. Javert met his gaze, unable to decipher the other man's expression. "What? At least the portress is sensible and drinks coffee."

Valjean said nothing for a moment. When he spoke, Javert realized why; Valjean was trying not to laugh, his shoulders shaking a little in suppressed mirth. "I didn't realize you were so fond of coffee."   
  
"Some of us are not immediately awake and ready for the day," Javert said, looking a little sourly at Valjean's utter lack of lethargy. Were it not for the paleness and hollowness of Valjean's cheeks, he might have almost looked bright and cheerful and prepared for the day.   
  
Javert supposed he should be glad that Valjean seemed alert and more enthusiastic this morning. Doubtless he would be, once he finished his coffee. He took another sip; this time the taste actually broke through the retreating haze of sleep. He stared at the mug in mute exasperation for a moment. "That is entirely unfair, Valjean," he objected. "Your landlady makes better coffee than mine, when you do not even _drink_ the stuff!"

A hoarse chuckle escaped Valjean’s lips then and turned to coughing. When the coughing had ebbed, Valjean said a little breathlessly, “I will pass along the compliment.”  
  
Javert drank the rest of the coffee in a slow fashion to savor it even as Valjean coughed again and drank from the water jug. "The portress will bring breakfast soon. Then we can see about exercise."  
  
"Exercise," Valjean echoed, frowning in thought. At least he didn't try to object. Instead he looked rueful and admitted, "I used to take long walks, but I don't think I can manage my way even to the end of the street right now."  
  
Javert shrugged. He had thought as much. "Then we'll start with you walking around the antechamber and proceed from there." 

The portress brought up the food. They ate in relative silence, the only noises the scraping sound the knife made against the toast as Valjean spread jam on top of it. When they had finished, Javert went to the window, opening it and enjoying the cool morning air against his face. 

"I still say it is strange," Valjean said behind him, half to himself. 

"What's strange?" Javert asked. He turned from the window to see Valjean's forehead creased in something like confusion. 

"Seeing you like this. Somehow I thought you sprang from your bed in full uniform, hat and all." It was only the slight quiver of Valjean's lips that gave away that he was not entirely serious. 

"Of course I don't," Javert said evenly, and waited a beat. "That would wrinkle the uniform." 

That surprised another hoarse laugh from Valjean even as he struggled out of bed. At first he wavered on his feet like a sailor adjusting to land after months at sea, but gradually he steadied, one hand on the headboard. Perspiration beaded his forehead, his face gone almost as pale as his white hair, but he gritted his teeth and took a slow, careful step away from the bed. He took that step, then another, then a third before he collapsed into the arm-chair, gasping. "I think this might be a longer task than you were expecting," he said weakly once he had caught his breath. He closed his eyes and rested his head limply against the back of the arm-chair. 

Javert studied him with a frown, crossing his arms against his chest in thought. He shouldn't have been surprised at Valjean's weakness, not when the man looked practically skeletal, but the fact that Valjean could barely walk three paces before collapsing was worrying. He wondered if he should fetch the doctor again, and then dismissed the thought. It had been less than a day since Valjean had resumed eating decent meals. They were simply pushing him too hard.  

"Rest, and then we'll try again," he said.

There was a slight movement of Valjean's head that was probably a nod of agreement. 

"And while you do that, I can go to my apartment and get some fresh clothes," Javert continued. He tugged at his collar; it was doubtless his imagination for he had not done anything particularly strenuous yesterday to dirty his clothing, but the fabric felt unclean and itchy. "And send the letter to your daughter." 

Valjean muttered something that sounded like agreement, his eyes still closed. 

Javert went into the bedchamber he had used, donned his hat, cravat, and coat. When he reentered the antechamber, Valjean seemed to be half-dozing. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest kept Javert from shaking him back to consciousness.

Instead he moved the water jug to the side of the round table closest to Valjean, gathered up Cosette's letter, and departed. 

 

* * *

 

Once Javert returned with enough off-duty clothing to last two days, he and Valjean fell into a strange rhythm for the rest of the day. Valjean would walk the room to the point of near collapse and then return to his bed to recover, whereupon Javert would read aloud an excerpt of  _Reveries_  until Valjean felt steady enough to resume the exercise.

This pattern was interrupted only by the meals, and an hour in the mid-afternoon during which Valjean prayed while Javert walked the street and examined the other houses. If Valjean had chosen this place for its seclusion, he had chosen well. Javert saw no one on the street, and only one carriage passed by him during his walk. It was only when they'd finished supper that Javert cleared his throat and spoke of something other than Rousseau or exercise.

"I received only three days leave from M. Gisquet. I shall have to return to return to my post the day after tomorrow." 

Valjean said nothing for a moment, his head turned away as he reached for the water jug. "I think I will be able to manage on my own by tomorrow," he said, but his tone was a little strange.

Javert frowned, wishing Valjean would look at him so that he could better see Valjean's expression. He studied instead the sudden tension in Valjean's shoulders and the way he gripped at the water jug, and realized, with some surprise that Valjean did not want to be left alone. Did he fear that his thoughts in solitude would turn upon him and convince him that Cosette did not care? Surely he would not miss Javert's company. 

"I don't leave a task half-finished, Valjean," he finally said, fumbling a little for the right words. "I will come in the evenings. You can-- you can report on your exercise."

Valjean turned towards him at that, narrowing his eyes and puckering his mouth into a sour frown. Rather than reassure him, Javert's words seemed to have made him angry. “I am not some task you must complete, Javert,” he said. "If you are here because Cosette begged it of you, rest assured that you have done your duty. I have sworn to live. I will eat and exercise and ask Cosette to visit when the doctor tells me I am well enough. You need not be obliged to oversee this  _task_  any longer." 

Javert was baffled, both by Valjean's sudden fit of temper and by the sudden dismay that tightened his chest at the thought of leaving. "Perhaps I phrased that badly," he found himself saying quickly. "I only meant...." But he did not know what he had meant, and anything that rose to his lips seemed trite and foolish and would only sound more-so said aloud. He leaned back against the arm-chair, frowning. "I did not mean offense," he said finally, his scowl deepening at the inadequacy of his response.

But his groping for words seemed to have appeased Valjean, because the anger was ebbing from the other man's face, replaced by a small smile that sat uncertainly on Valjean's lips, as though unsure whether it wanted to be there. "No, I see that you didn't. I misunderstood you."

Javert shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He was uncertain what to make of the sudden warmth in Valjean's expression, like Javert had said something particularly amiable rather than awkward. "Yes, well," he said, clearing his throat. "Another chapter before bed, or did you simply want to sleep?" 

"Another chap--" Valjean began, interrupted by a yawn. He looked a little aggrieved at his body's betrayal, though humor glinted in his eyes when Javert snorted in amusement. "Bed, then."

Javert rose. "Goodnight." 

"Goodnight, Javert," Valjean said.

Javert, in the middle of dousing the candles, wondered a little at his tone, which sounded but couldn't possibly be affectionate. He turned to try and gauge Valjean's expression but the other man had already turned away, resting his head on his pillow and settling in to sleep. Javert watched him for a moment. That earlier unfamiliar curiosity was sparking in his mind, urging him to ask Valjean what he had meant by that tone, but he firmly squelched the absurd notion. He made his way carefully in the dark, for the window was shut and the curtains kept even the moonlight from filtering into the antechamber. 

He passed Valjean's bed, Valjean's steady breathing seeming uncommonly loud in Javert's ears, and then entered his bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind him. He leaned against the door for a moment, scowling into the dark, his mind turning over the strangeness of his conversations with Valjean and unable to find a practical answer. 

Not for the first time in his life, Javert slept poorly, tossing and turning, thoughts of Valjean disturbing him even in his dreams.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Valjean studied Javert’s drawn features and doubtless saw the signs of his sleepless night but said nothing.

Javert didn’t let himself feel grateful for Valjean's silence. Instead he drank his coffee and ate his toast, after which he asked, “Do you think you could manage the stairs today?”

Valjean made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, his forehead creasing as he considered the idea. "Perhaps?" he offered at last, sounding tentative but hopeful. "I walked to the door and back last night without stumbling. If you don't mind letting me rest a while afterwards, I think I could do it."

Javert waved a hand. "That would suit me. I thought we could sit outside for an hour or so." 

Valjean's lips twitched and he looked amused. "Sit outside? Next you will propose a picnic."

Javert ignored the laughter in Valjean's voice and folded his arms against his chest. "That's an idea. Perhaps we could have the portress bring out a mid-day meal. The doctor did say fresh air would do you good." 

Valjean stared. "I wasn't being serious."

Javert drew back his lips in a smile as Valjean continued to stare. "That is the danger of a jest," he said, rising to his feet and brushing crumbs from his clothes. "Someone might take you seriously." He paused. "Although I think I will refrain from calling it a picnic."

Valjean continued to stare for a moment, and then shook his head. "I suppose I will have to consider my jests more carefully around you," he muttered, but he sounded more amused than annoyed. 

They made their way slowly down the stairs, Valjean pausing every few steps to catch his breath, Javert on the step below him in case he stumbled. Although, Javert thought dryly as he watched Valjean hold tightly to the railing, Valjean's weight would probably send them both tumbling if he did fall; Valjean might have lost a great deal of weight, but his shoulders were still broad, his thinner body nevertheless still solid, and even Javert's greater height could not compensate for that. 

Finally they were out on the front steps. Valjean took three steps into the street and all but collapsed onto the stone post there, wiping at his brow and saying with some relief, "I think it was a good idea to have a meal out here. I will need it, to get back upstairs." 

Javert stood next to the stone post, his arms folded. He didn't make a remark about how only a few months earlier, Valjean might have been able to tear that stone post from its foundation, though he very much wanted to. He was irritated again by the thought of Valjean giving up and rolling over for death like a beaten dog. His stomach soured.  

"I don't think I like your look," Valjean said dryly. "Do I need to remind you that you promised not to scold me like a fishwife?" 

Javert blinked, startled from his thoughts. "I said nothing." 

"You didn't need to; your face showed your thoughts," Valjean said.

Javert frowned. He regretted his decision to leave his hat upstairs, for that would have surely shielded his expression. "I made a promise not to scold you. I cannot help my thoughts," he said grumpily, and was further annoyed when Valjean smiled. 

"No, I suppose you cannot."

Valjean lifted his face towards the sky, closing his eyes and relaxing, as though relishing the sun’s warmth. Javert studied him from the corner of his eye. Valjean looked almost content, his hands resting loosely on his knees. The lines on his face were still there, but somewhat softened, and there was the faintest of smiles tucked away at the corner of his mouth. 

It was not a look Javert had seen before, but it suited Valjean, cast off the decade he had seemed to have aged in the past year so that he looked his age once more. Javert kept silent, not wanting to disrupt whatever peace Valjean had found. He adjusted his stance, settling into parade rest, his gaze half on Valjean, half on the empty street. 

It was a good while before Valjean gave himself a shake, and opened his eyes again. His expression remained calm, untroubled. "Thank you," he said quietly. "You and the doctor were right. I needed this."   
  
If it had been strange seeing that peaceful look when Valjean was lost in thought, it was even stranger to have Valjean direct it at him. The force of Valjean's tranquil smile should not have felt like an unexpected blow to his chest, but it did. Javert found himself averting his gaze, suddenly quite interested in the flower pot perched precariously in a window across the street. He studied it for a moment, but unfortunately it didn't seem likely to fall and provide some distraction.  
  
"Of course you did," he said at last, keeping his tone neutral. "The doctor knows his trade." He dared a glance towards Valjean to see his response.  
  
The sunlight seemed to have banished all worries from Valjean's mind, for he was still smiling faintly despite Javert's lukewarm answer. The serene attitude was apparently inclined to linger as he asked, "Could we stay out here after our meal?"  
  
Javert was glad for the question, turning it over in his mind for a moment. "I don't see why not, though you might get too warm," he answered, looking at the long sleeves Valjean wore to conceal the marks and scars Toulon had left on him.

Valjean shrugged, the rise and fall of his shoulders accompanied by his widening smile. "I think I will survive," he murmured, and if there was some deeper meaning to his quiet words, Javert did not call him on it. 

 

* * *

 

"Do you need to leave after supper?" Valjean asked when Javert paused in his recitation to turn to the next chapter of  _Reveries_.

Javert paused, not so much struck by Valjean's careful tone as by the realization that he had all but forgotten that he had to report back to work in the morning. "I suppose I should," he said slowly. "It would make little sense to get up early to return to my lodgings and then report to the station-house. Then again," he added with a rueful twist of his lips and glance out the window at the dark sky, "I suspect it would be difficult to find a carriage at this hour." 

"Carriages don't come often to this street," Valjean agreed. "It might be better to wait until morning."  
  
"Besides," Javert continued, "I have grown accustomed to your landlady's cooking. I will enjoy one last breakfast if I can."  
  
Valjean's lips twitched. "You mean her coffee."   
  
"The woman could set up a café if she had the inclination." Javert was completely serious, but Valjean apparently took it for a jest and chuckled.   
  
Most of the hoarseness had gone from Valjean's voice over the past two days; the sound was quiet and rich with amusement, and Javert found the corners of his lips tugging slightly upwards in response before he forced his expression into a neutral look.

He picked up the book once more, his gaze falling upon the first line of the Sixth Walk. He hesitated, a minute pause, but nevertheless he felt the weight of Valjean’s gaze upon him as though Valjean had noticed his demurral. Javert wetted his lips with his tongue, for his mouth was unaccountably dry. He did not look up at Valjean but kept his gaze fixed upon the book as he spoke the opening line slowly.

 _“We have hardly any mechanical movement whose cause is not to be found in our heart, if we are acquainted with the manner of seeking it.”_  

 

* * *

 

“Inspector Javert!” Moreau exclaimed when Javert entered the station-house the following morning. The sergeant stared at him with a strange relief. The reason for it was made apparent when Moreau reached into a pocket and withdrew a bulging envelope. “This came for you. I went to your apartment, but your landlady said she didn't know where you'd gone.”

Javert ignored the curiosity in the young man’s face. “I see,” he said, accepting the envelope and tucking it into his own pocket for safekeeping. He didn't need to inspect the envelope to know who had written it; he remembered Valjean’s comment upon Cosette’s desire for answers. The very weight of it was enough to confirm it was from her. He wondered how he should answer her. Perhaps he should wait until that evening and ask Valjean's advice.  
  
Moreau was staring at him; he realized he was smiling ruefully. He immediately scowled. "I hope that you didn't waste too much time on that. You are a member of the service, not a messenger."  
  
"No, monsieur inspector!" Moreau said, rocking back on his feet and nodding fervently. "In fact, I have been following up on that string of robberies. If you'll give me a moment, I think I might have found a connection in the cases...."

Javert listened to the sergeant's theory. Moreau’s connection between the robberies, while tentative, had potential. “I think it is worth further investigation," he agreed. He tucked his cane under his arm. "Let us speak to the owner of the first shop again."  
  
"Yes, Monsieur Inspector," said Moreau, looking pleased. Then he winced. "Oh, forgive me, I almost forgot. I'm to tell you that the Prefect wishes to see you before he leaves today. He expects a verbal report."  
  
Javert did not raise an eyebrow or grimace, but it was a very near thing. Monsieur Gisquet did not often ask for reports in person; doubtless he was curious about Javert's sudden request for leave. Javert kept his expression blank, his voice neutral, despite the anxiety that clawed at his belly. "I will be certain to make that report. Now, shall we go?"

The rest of the morning proved successful, with Moreau’s theory bearing fruit in the form of the arrest of two thieves who had managed until now to conceal themselves from the attention of the police. Javert did not offer praise often, and he did not offer it now, for surely Moreau could see he had done well, the thieves now in prison and preparing to stand trial for their crimes. Instead he cleared his throat and said, "This case made me think of another thief."

" _Another_ thief, Monsieur Javert? Do you think they had an accomplice?" Moreau asked a trifle anxiously.

"No, you mistake me. I meant they reminded me of a different thief who escaped punishment for far too long. You must remember the story of the man Thénardier and his escape from prison."  
  
"Yes," Moreau said with a grimace. "Out his window, I heard, and not been seen since."  
  
"I saw him last June during the unrest. He was using the chaos to rob personal items off the dead," Javert said with a scowl that was not feigned. "I pursued him but lost his trail when he entered the sewers. Lately I have begun to think he might still be in the city. Scum like Thénardier stay close to what they know, and Thénardier knows the underworld of Paris. I want to see him brought to justice."

“How can I help, Inspector?” Moreau asked, his expression eager.  
  
Javert said, "We need to speak to a few of the more reliable police informers, see if any of them have seen or heard rumors of Thénardier. However, we must take care. Talk to too many, and word will reach Thénardier. He'll sense the noose tightening and bolt."  
  
"How do we know which informers to trust, monsieur?"  
  
"We do not _trust_ any of them-- never trust a criminal who turned informer for money," Javert said sharply. "But we need to speak to other officers, see which informers tend to help rather than hinder their investigations." 

That was precisely what they did for the next few hours before Javert inspected his watch which was in want of repair and an hour behind, and remarked, “Monsieur Gisquet will be expecting me. Write up a list of potential informers and we’ll go over it after I have spoken with the Prefect.”  
  
He did not wait for Moreau's reply, though the sergeant said, "Yes, monsieur!" quite cheerfully.  
  
Javert stood before the Prefect's door, steeling himself for the conversation, which was certain to be disagreeable. Monsieur Gisquet would be wondering why he had requested three days leave. Javert found himself fidgeting with his cravat, nervous fingers adjusting it and making certain it was straight. He forced himself to take in a deep breath. He would have to offer the Prefect a few more half-truths, an unpleasant but necessary evil, and then Javert could refocus his attention to his duty and hopefully put all subterfuge behind him.

He knocked sharply at the door, and waited.  
  
A moment later, Gisquet called, "Come in!"  
  
Gisquet was seated at his desk, frowning down at a paper in his hand. His frown only deepened when he looked up and saw it was Javert. "Inspector." His greeting was remote, but that in itself did not disconcert Javert. Gisquet had not looked kindly upon his letter or his objection to the order regarding doctors betraying their patients, and had treated Javert with a certain coolness ever since.  
  
"You requested a report from me, Monsieur le Prefet," Javert said, trying to keep his voice low and respectful as he bowed. "Is now a good time to do so?"  
  
"Yes," Gisquet said.  
  
When he did not invite Javert to sit down, Javert stood at parade rest and launched into his report. "Monsieur le Prefet, Sergeant Moreau and I spent the morning further investigating a string of robberies. Through Moreau's thorough attention to detail, we discovered a connection between the crimes that--"  
  
"Yes, yes, I am aware of the arrests you made today, Inspector," Gisquet said with a bit of exasperation. "That is not why I asked you here."  
  
Javert kept his face blank. "Forgive me, Monsieur le Prefect, but I was told that you wished me to give a verbal report."  
  
"Yes, but not on today's arrests," Gisquet snapped.  
  
Javert arranged his features into something resembling polite confusion. "Monsieur le Prefet? If you did not want a report on the day, what type of report did you want?"

“It has been eight years since you came to Paris,” Gisquet said, and Javert did not correct him. “Eight years, and not once have you requested leave until now. I want to know why you felt it proper to leave your post for three days with only a day’s notice.”  
      
Javert had expected the query, and yet his stomach still roiled as Gisquet fixed a sharp glare upon him. He kept his tone even, his expression impassive. "I did not realize my personal life was anyone's business but my own, Monsieur le Prefet," he said, "though I am sorry that I could not give more advanced warning. It will not happen again."

Gisquet stared at him for a moment, his lips pressed together in a tight frown. "So you will not tell me where you have been for three days," he said flatly. "How can we be certain you will not take leave again? We are not so many on the force that you can leave with so little warning. And you have several open cases."  
  
"It was a personal matter, Monsieur le Prefet. An aberration not likely to be repeated," Javert said again. He didn't let himself think about how the latter sentence tasted almost sour on his tongue, although the words came out in the same respectful tone.  
  
Gisquet leaned back in his chair. "Your personal life, and a personal matter," he repeated with a twist of his lips and a tone Javert disliked. There was a hint of mockery lurking in his superior's voice. "I wasn't aware that you had a private life to speak of."  
  
Javert didn't bristle, but only because he knew Gisquet was baiting him. "I do not, Monsieur le Prefet," he agreed. "Again, the past few days were an aberration." There was tension building in his shoulders; he wished Gisquet would stop with that small smirk and give him leave to return to his duties. He wetted his lips. "Did you wish for a verbal report on today's arrests since I am here, or did you want that in writing?"

Gisquet narrowed his eyes, staring at Javert as though trying to peer into his mind and pry all his secrets from his head. Javert didn't flinch; he regarded the Prefect steadily. After a moment, Gisquet snorted and waved his hand. "You can file today's report on paper. I will look at it in the morning."  
  
"I understand, Monsieur le Prefet." 

"Dismissed."  
  
Javert was almost to the door when Gisquet's voice caught him again. "Inspector Javert? You may say this was an aberration, but I do not look kindly upon those who allow personal affairs to interfere with their work. Are you certain you are not distracted from your duty?"  
  
Javert stared at the door, so close to the freedom of the hallway and relief from Gisquet's intrusive glare and yet the door might as well have been on the other side of Paris. He thought of how he had not given a moment's thought to leaving for three days in search of Valjean when Cosette had asked for his help, of how easily he and Valjean had fallen into a rhythm, of how Valjean had had to remind him last night that he was to report in to work.  
  
"I am not distracted, Monsieur le Prefet," he said, and wondered why that felt like the greatest lie of all.

 

* * *

 

Gisquet’s words preyed upon his mind for the rest of his shift. Javert found his thoughts circling the question, judging his answer and finding it wanting. All of his half-truths had added up at last into this outright lie, and it sat like a stone in his stomach. 

Did Valjean not cause all manner of confusion in Javert's brain, he asked himself. Had Valjean not, in his acts of mercy, convinced Javert to disregard what he knew was just in the eyes of the law and society? Had it not been his present duty to tell Gisquet now that he had been aiding an ex-convict who had broken parole, to lead Gisquet to the Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7 and seize Valjean? The Javert of two years ago wouldn't have hesitated, would have smiled in satisfaction as Valjean was clapped in irons. 

He wondered, the stone in his stomach growing heavier, what he would have done five days ago if Cosette had approached him and told him that Valjean was in chains. 

Javert fled before the thoughts that cut into him like knives. He attempted to occupy himself with diverting tasks, such as writing up the requested report on the day's arrests and discussing with Moreau which informers they should approach to search for Thénardier. Contemplation of Thénardier only turned his thoughts blacker. Was he not hunting Thénardier for Valjean as well, to grant the man some peace rather than because Thénardier's current liberty was an insult to the service and a danger to society? 

He looked with something close to relief at his watch when he realized that his shift was at an end. "We will speak to the informers in the morning," Javert announced. He caught a flicker of surprise on Moreau's face.

"Monsieur Javert?" Moreau said hesitantly. "You're leaving?"

"Yes," Javert said a little impatiently. He gestured at his watch. "It is the end of our shift."

"Of course, monsieur," Moreau agreed. "It is only...you usually stay later."

Javert frowned, struck once more by the truth of this. He often stayed late, writing out a private report of the day's events, composing a list of tasks meant to be done the following day, or answering queries from the sergeants and fellow inspectors arriving for the night shift. He stroked his whiskers and scowled. "I have already submitted my written and verbal reports to Monsieur Gisquet, and we have tomorrow planned out," he said, hating how hollow his justifications sounded to his own ear, though Moreau seemed to accept them, nodding. 

"And doubtless we'll want a decent night’s sleep if we're going to be hunting down the informers all over Paris," Moreau added. Then he paused, his gaze lowering to rest oddly and almost speculatively upon Javert's coat. "Yes, that makes sense, Inspector."

It took Javert a moment to realize Cosette's letter was still tucked into his pocket. He did not touch the spot, did not let warmth color his face and blush as a guilty man would, but instead forced himself to nod. "Precisely. Get a good night's rest, Moreau. It will be a long day tomorrow."

"Yes, monsieur." 

Javert hesitated on the steps of the station-house. Turn left, and he would spend the night in his apartment where his thoughts would torment him further and lead to yet another sleepless night. Turn right, and he would find himself back at Valjean's apartment, like a dog brought to heel. He wavered there a moment. Thankfully most of the evening shift had already gone into the building, so there was no one on the street at that particular moment to watch the curious struggle taking place on Javert's face.

He peered first right, then left, then right again, his eyes narrowed. Then, with a hard exhale and sudden turn, he strode forcefully in the direction of the Rue de l'Homme Arme, his head bowed, that fierce gaze fixed upon the cobblestone. He walked quickly, as though pursued. More than one passerby saw his dark expression and backed hastily out of his way. He passed them without thought. It was only when he turned upon Valjean's street that his steps slowed and he raised his head. 

The sky was overcast; the moon filtered only faint light through the clouds and Javert could not see the stars. There was no one else on the street, and most of the windows were dark, the occupants of the houses long since asleep. He strode closer to the apartment, and then stopped. The stone in his stomach felt like more like a boulder, weighing him down. 

He began to walk back and forth before No. 7, unable to bring himself to knock upon the door but equally unable to leave. The street seemed to close in around him, a trap he had seen too late. He was muttering without being conscious of what he was saying, fragmented sentences about duty and debt and justice and mercy falling awkwardly and despairingly off his tongue. 

Javert did not know how long he paced, only that a voice at last broke in upon his thoughts and stilled his movement with a soft of his name.

"Javert." 

Javert turned his head. Valjean stood at the threshold, the light spilling past him and casting his features in shadow; still, Javert could make out enough of the other man's stance to know that Valjean was leaning heavily against the door-frame, having doubtless exhausted himself in his walk down the stairs.

How long had Valjean watched from his window, observing Javert as he paced like a caged beast? 

"Javert," Valjean said again, when Javert only stared. 

Javert bared his teeth in a noiseless laugh. His head hurt; he was dizzy from the walking to and fro. He wished Valjean would close the door and leave him be. He wished Valjean would close the door and come closer. He did not know what he wished, and it made him all the angrier. "Javert," he echoed, his own name twisting bitterly on his lips and turning almost alien. "Yes, go ahead, call me to heel. I have been well trained. Did I not come running the instant your daughter asked me to look for you? Did I not stay by your side these past few days as a tamed cur should? Have I not forsaken my duty, lied to the very face of the Prefect for you?" His voice never rose from a low snarl, for even in his rage he knew better than to let his speech reach the portress's prying ears, but his voice grew thicker with ugliness and fury until he sounded barely human. 

Valjean did not move from the door, did not speak, and still Javert could not make sense of his expression. 

"Well?" he barked. "Call me to heel. We both know I will obey--" Here his voice broke and he stood there, a terrible shudder moving through him.

"Javert," Valjean murmured, and Javert hated the gentle way he said it. Valjean at last moved from the doorway and approached him. It was fitting, the cautious steps he took, as though Javert were a half-mad beast that would spook if Valjean moved too hastily. 

"No, no, you are getting everything all wrong," Javert told him, trying to laugh but only choking instead. "I am the one who comes to you, not you to me--"

"Enough," said Valjean, and pressed his hand upon Javert's arm, the same spot he had held that night upon the parapet. His voice was soft with remorse. "It was never my intention for you to suffer so."

Javert tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat again. Valjean's hand upon his arm was a weight greater than the lie he had told Gisquet, a shackle that chained him to the spot. "No, you have tried to be kind," he said, the final word spat out like a curse. 

In the dim light, Valjean's features were lost in shadow. Javert nevertheless had the impression that Valjean wore a look of stricken uncertainty. Valjean said nothing, barely seemed to breathe, bowing his head against the force of Javert's words. He would have seemed meek, were it not for the fact that his powerful grasp of Javert’s arm did not loosen.

"I looked Monsieur Gisquet in the eye and told him all manner of half-truths," Javert said. He wanted to pace but Valjean's grip kept him bound. "It was quite easy. My voice did not even shake. Once, I was an honest man.” His lips parted in a smile that hurt his jaw. “You remember, I am sure, my painful honesty in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Now I lie with an ease that condemns me, all for an old jailbird to buy back my-- no, no, enough." 

He made an impatient gesture with his free hand. Even he was wearying of his vicious prattle, each syllable more and more distasteful to him. An inner voice murmured pointedly that there was also the fact that Valjean had never asked him to lie to M. Gisquet. Javert had done that of his own free will.

And therein was the crux of the matter. Standing there, Valjean’s hand pressing upon his arm, the street silent save for their soft breaths, Javert found that he had shifted all blame so that he alone remained untouched by it, had pushed it instead upon Gisquet for his pointed questions and upon Valjean for making Javert want to lie. This despite the fact that Javert should have borne nearly all of the blame upon his shoulders, for it was his mouth which had uttered the falsehoods. 

He had looked within his own mind after Valjean had cut him free of the martingale and freed him, and had found realizations that had nearly driven him to the fatal embrace of the Seine. He had given to himself a proper account of the innermost workings of his mind and his actions that night, despite how they'd galled him. What prevented him from repeating the exercise now, other than that the terror of what he might find lurking in his mind? The only reason could be cowardice, in a man who had only quailed once before.

Javert had seized upon Valjean's jest about his bought soul and used it as an excuse for the past year to flee the hard truths he had acknowledged upon the parapet. He had contorted Valjean's words until they suited him, until he could use the bright conviction that he owed Valjean something to clear away the clouds from that clouded crystal of his mind devoted to the law and duty and obligation. He had been standing upon a mental precipice, his eyes willfully and defiantly closed to any other truth. 

He opened them now and studied not Valjean, who stood silent, that white head still bowed and those broad shoulders curiously hunched, but rather the two paths he had beheld that night at the parapet which had so terrified him. They were slightly altered, but nevertheless they still ran contrary to each other, parallel lines that would never cross. 

One led back to his own apartment and the station-house, back to serviceable food and long hours, back to devotion to duty and justice above all other things and submitting to Gisquet's orders. That path would lead him away from the Rue de l'Homme Arme for good; there would be no returning to this street and this house. 

The other path lay before him, to Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7 and an antechamber that smelled of paper and spilled wax, to excellent coffee and almost bearable book readings, to a deep contemplation of what was just versus what was merciful and to enduring Valjean's kindness. That path would not keep him from his duties as an inspector, but the Javert who took this path would not be the same man who had left the station-house earlier in the evening in such a daze.    

"But enough," Javert said quietly, half to his own teeming brain and half to Valjean, who had still made no movement or sound, like a man turned to stone. Javert made his decision, not in a sudden burst of enlightenment, but in the way one does when they have examined a problem from all angles and discovered the only choice that will allow one to live rather than merely survive. "You are doubtless tired of discussing the buying and selling of souls, especially when I doubt mine's very existence." 

Before Valjean could answer him, Javert carefully pried Valjean's resisting fingers from his arm. Other than the reluctance with which Valjean let go, there was no argument from the other man. He did not even drag his feet when Javert took Valjean by the arm and led him towards the entrance, but rather shuddered in surprise before he relaxed into Javert's hold and followed pliantly. 

Still, enough light from the house fell upon Valjean's face for Javert to see the drawn, concerned look Valjean wore and the way his troubled gaze was fixed upon Javert's face. 

Javert ignored the look. "Besides," he said, more lightly than he felt, for his agitated mind continued to work frantically, offering up realization after realization until he thought his brain would burst from the strain, "the doctor will be furious with us. You shouldn't have been exposed to the chill. At least tell me you ate supper." 

"I did," Valjean said. The answer was spoken slowly, as though he wasn't certain what to make of Javert's sudden good humor and thought it some trick. "And I used the stairs on my own-- but of course you know that." 

They entered the house, Javert closing the door behind them. Now lamplight played upon Valjean's ashen features, exposing the sweat shining upon his face, the way his lips pinched at the corners, the tension in the rest of his body as he struggled not to stumble. 

Javert studied him, feeling the tremors in Valjean's arm that he was trying to hide, and swore under his breath at his own folly. Had he ruined all the good work of the past few days in the matter of minutes? "Lean on me, or else I don't think you'll make it up the stairs," he ordered. 

He wondered at a little at Valjean's faint smile, how the command smoothed out some of the strain from the other man's face. "All right," Valjean said agreeably, and then let a good portion of his weight press against Javert's side as Javert wrapped a supporting arm around Valjean's waist. 

This close, Valjean smelled of soap and faintly of sweat. Despite having been outside in the cool air, his skin was warm through the fabric of his shirt, though not overly warm. Javert did not worry about a fever. He had trimmed his hair sometime that day; the beard seemed neater, his long hair less tangled. When Valjean turned his head to look up at Javert, some of that soft hair brushed against Javert's collar and tickled his throat. 

"Perhaps we should actually go up the stairs," Valjean said at last, sounding almost amused, and Javert realized he had been standing there cataloging things about Valjean like a ninny. 

"Yes," Javert said. He cleared his throat and forced away the heat that wanted to flood his face. He took a step towards the stairs, and Valjean followed after. They mounted the first step as Javert cautioned, "Slowly, now."

"Slowly," Valjean agreed, but this was said in a pensive tone, as though Valjean was thinking of something else entirely. 

Javert wondered at it, but then they were taking the next step, Valjean fumbling for the railing with his free hand, and Javert focused all his attention on getting Valjean safely back to his rooms. 

As soon as they were inside the antechamber, Valjean broke free of Javert's grasp and collapsed onto his bed; he only partially succeeded in sliding under his covers. He closed his eyes and ignored Javert's remark that being so tangled in his sheets did not look comfortable. 

"Shall I give you my report now?" Valjean asked, his eyes still closed, the words a low murmur. 

Javert took off his coat, folding it carefully and setting it across the back of the arm-chair, for he would not be returning to his own apartment tonight. If he was going to wear the same uniform tomorrow, he should keep it neat. He saw the bulges in the pockets, withdrew both the truncheon and Cosette's letter. "I think perhaps we should read your daughter's letter instead," he said in answer, setting the truncheon on the round table. "You know her well. She sent a thick envelope to the station-house, doubtless to demand answers."

When Valjean did not respond, Javert turned. He wasn't entirely surprised to see that Valjean had fallen asleep nearly the instant his head had touched his pillow. Valjean was sprawled out on the bed; one arm dangled over the edge, the other clutched at his covers. The strain was leaving his features slowly but surely, turning his expression peaceful.  

Javert looked at Valjean and then the unopened letter. He felt his lips twitch. "Oh well," he muttered. "It will wait until breakfast." He set the envelope on the round table and then stepped over to the fireplace, checking on the coals. Satisfied that the fire would keep until the morning, he resumed his seat. He did not study Valjean's features again, but rather let his gaze go unfocused and his thoughts turn inward upon his still ruminating brain. 

It was time to face the truth. He owed nothing more to Valjean, and yet he had chosen to stay. He had chosen, if one wished to phrase it crudely, Valjean and all that entailed. He did not know the full ramifications of his choice, only that it meant he had fully embraced that decision he had made a year ago, to do all that was within his power to keep Valjean at liberty, even at the cost of his integrity.

He felt simultaneously unmoored and held fast by the realization, the floor beneath him at once both made of quicksand and the strongest bedrock. "Well," he said quietly, blinking and realizing that his blind gaze had been focused upon Valjean all the while.

He wanted to pace again, a certain restlessness welling up, but he quelled the impulse. He would let Valjean rest. Instead he walked carefully over to the bed, tugging off Valjean's boots and setting them gently on the floor. Then he retreated back to the arm-chair to rest his chin on his fist and prepare himself for another sleepless night as he turned his gaze inward once more and began the slow and painful task of making a full account of all his actions.

It was going to be a very long night. 


	4. Javert’s Surfeit of Diligence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to ailelie to being an amazing beta and helping to make this story halfway decent. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience, dear readers, as I finished this chapter. Have, uh, 25,500 words as an apology and thank-you for your overwhelmingly lovely reviews? There will be a fifth and final chapter, which will hopefully be up in the next week and a half. 
> 
> This chapter does contain depictions of violence and a non-canon minor character death. If you want to be spoiled, I have put the name in the end notes of the chapter.

Javert had not thought he would be able to rest, but sleep must have taken him unawares. One moment it seemed that he was staring at the fireplace; the next, someone was shaking his shoulder and murmuring his name in a soft but firm voice. When Javert opened his eyes and moved his head, he found that he was slumped against the backrest of the chair, his face pressed against the fabric. His hat must have fallen from its perch on the arm-rest for he did not immediately spot it. He blinked groggily at Valjean, who was half-bent over him, his hand resting on Javert's shoulder. 

"What?" he asked, and winced at the sound of his own rough voice. His head hurt, as though he had undergone a violent fit of weeping rather than a restless night.   
  
Valjean caught the grimace; his own lips twisted into a rueful look. "I would have let you sleep, but I doubted that you’d wish to be late for your shift. I asked the portress to prepare breakfast and a washing basin. They should be ready soon."

Javert reached up a hand to rub at his eyes, belatedly noticing the sunlight coming in through the window. “A good thought,” he agreed. He rubbed the last of the grit from his eyes and saw with a clearer gaze Valjean’s wan look. He frowned, drowsiness banished by concern. Now that his head was clear, Javert noticed the tremble in Valjean's hand and the slight hitch in the other man's breathing as though he couldn't quite catch his breath. “For mercy's sake, Valjean, get back in bed.”   
  
Valjean blinked at the sharp command but obeyed. He settled carefully upon the bed, a quiet hiss of discomfort escaping his lips, his expression drawn tight with pain.   
  
"You did too much last night," Javert continued, his frown deepening to a scowl. He was not used to guilt; it rested uncomfortably on his shoulders. "You shouldn't have used the stairs on your own and then endured the chill while I indulged in ridiculous self-pity."   
  
"Ridiculous self-pity," Valjean repeated, and now it was his turn to frown. "That is not what I would call last night--"

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Javert snapped, stung a little by the memory of the gentleness and remorse in Valjean's voice. He might have chosen this path but he would be damned if he'd endure Valjean's pity. "I was being foolish last night. I hope not to repeat it." He waved a dismissive hand before Valjean could respond. "Let us speak of something else."   
  
Valjean's expression set into mulish lines. "Very well," he said a little tartly. "We shall discuss how I didn't get to say  _my_  piece yesterday. If I had, I would have said that I enjoy your company and am glad you are here, strange as that may seem." The words were said in a challenging tone, his short speech a gauntlet thrown at Javert's feet. 

Javert stared. He wracked his mind for words and found none; all his thoughts had scattered in surprise. After a long moment, he recovered his voice and said in a tone meant to be sarcastic but which came out flat, "I do not see why you would. So far I have scolded you like a fishwife, forced you to eat and exercise, and kept you shivering in the cold as I wrestled my demons."  
  
Valjean's expression twisted in exasperation. "You--" he began, and then turned such a glare upon the portress as she entered the room that she froze, her eyes widening in alarm. After a moment, he forced a strained smile. "Excuse me, madame. Thank you for the meal."  
  
"You're welcome," the portress said, darting bewildered glances between Javert and Valjean as she set the plates upon the round table. "The basin will be ready soon, monsieur inspector. Did you need--"  
  
"No," said Javert and Valjean together, and the portress backed hastily from the room.   
  
As soon as the door had shut behind her, Valjean resumed speaking, this time in a slow, relentless way. It was the type of voice that would go on quietly and inexorably, no matter how much Javert talked over it, until Valjean was finished. "You claim not be kind, and then you write to Cosette so that she will not worry a day longer than absolutely necessary. How is that not kind?" When Valjean took in a deep breath, color high in his cheeks and still with that frustrated furrow on his brow, Javert shifted uncomfortably. 

He had wanted to know Valjean's thoughts on him, but not if Valjean had been creating some elaborate delusion of Javert as a Good Samaritan that Javert would have to dismantle. "Enough," he said with a shake of his head before Valjean could offer another ridiculous example. "I don't want to know what other acts of mine you have deemed compassionate rather than merely sensible." He paused, an uncomfortable half-snort escaping his lips. "Truly, you are the only person who has ever called me kind. I think you are overly generous. I was only--"

"No, no excuses," Valjean countered, lips flattening further into a scowl. "You once told me that it is easy to be kind, so why do you refuse to admit to your own acts of compassion?" 

Javert frowned at having his own words turned upon him. "I have already explained. I was not being kind, only practical. And you've said your piece, surely." Judging by the glint in Valjean’s eye, he was not finished; Javert found himself holding up his hands in supplication and saying, "It's my turn for a truce."  
  
Valjean blinked. "A truce," he repeated. A reluctant smile passed quickly over his face, as though he were amused in spite of himself. "What? You will lay aside this foolish self-recrimination if I cease in my honest praise?"

"Well, I wouldn't phrase it that way, but yes," Javert said dryly, on slightly steadier ground now that he could throw Valjean's words back at him instead. He checked his watch. He had a half-hour to eat and get presentable if he wanted to be on time for his shift. He gestured at the neglected plates of food. "Now, shall we eat?"   
  
Valjean studied Javert for a moment, but whatever he found in Javert's face apparently satisfied him, for he nodded and began to spread jam on a piece of toast. "I see Cosette responded," he remarked, and made no pretense of his curiosity, darting a covetous glance at the envelope half-hidden under Javert's plate. "How many questions did she put to you?"  
  
"I haven't read it yet," Javert said. He sipped at the coffee the portress had left him. "I thought you might have some suggestions as how to appease her. Read it and tell me your thoughts tonight?"

Valjean smiled then. His voice held a warm certainty that had been sorely lacking before as he said, "She will not be satisfied until she and I are face to face and she can scold me for being away so long."

Remembering Cosette's similar words in the station-house, Javert smirked. "I do not doubt it." He devoted the next few minutes to breakfast, and had just finished the last of his coffee when the portress knocked at the door.  
  
"Come in," Valjean called. 

The portress entered slowly, burdened with the basin and washcloth. There was a piece of soap balanced in the crook of her arm. She was tense, but she relaxed, presumably relieved that she had not caught them mid-disagreement this time. She set everything down on the dresser, each movement careful as she labored to keep the water from splashing the wood. "If you'd bring it down to the kitchen once you're finished, Monsieur Javert," she said a little breathlessly.   
  
"I will," Javert said. Once she had gone, he rose to his feet and strode over to the basin, picking up his fallen hat from the floor and knocking dust from it as he did so. He set the hat to the side of the basin. The water was cool when he tested it with a finger, which suited him. He had not expected or wanted to be pampered with hot water. 

He undid his cravat and set it atop his hat, then rolled up his sleeves and worked the top buttons of his shirt so that his throat was exposed. "I do not think you should exercise until mid-day at the earliest," he remarked as he bent his head towards the basin. Closing his eyes, he splashed his face lightly and combed wet fingers through his hair and whiskers. "Yesterday was too taxing. Rest a bit."  
  
It was soothing, working the dust of the past day from his hair, scrubbing at his face with the piece of soap until he felt clean once more. He straightened once he was done, drying his face with the cloth. It was only then that he realized Valjean had not answered him. Either Valjean had given in to temptation and was reading Cosette's letter or he had fallen asleep at Javert's mere suggestion. Javert would not have been surprised either way. He turned towards the bed, and paused in the middle of buttoning up his shirt. 

Valjean was not reading the letter or resting. Instead he was staring towards Javert, a curious flush upon his cheeks and a peculiar look on his face. When Javert met his eyes, Valjean's color heightened and his expression shifted to sheepishness.   
  
"You are right. A bit more rest will do me good," Valjean muttered, dropping his gaze. “Open the window before you leave? The room is too warm.”   
  
Javert frowned. "It doesn't seem warm to me," he said. He stepped closer to the bed. He saw with rising alarm that there was sweat upon Valjean's brow. "Did the night air cause a fever?" He pressed the back of his hand against Valjean's cheek and then swore under his breath when he realized his hand had been too lately in water and could not tell a cool cheek from a fevered one. It would be a marvelous effort on his part, convincing Valjean to live and then killing him through thoughtlessness! He swore louder. "I will have the portress fetch the--"  
  
"Javert," Valjean said sharply. He made a strange noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a growl as though Javert was being foolish rather than justifiably concerned. The sound reverberated against Javert's hand. "I assure you that it is not a fever. I am fine."  
  
"The doctor said--" Javert began and was once more interrupted as Valjean turned from him, leaving Javert touching only empty air, and gestured at the window.  
  
"I know the difference between a fever and being a little warm," Valjean said dryly, though there was a strange catch to his voice. "Fresh air will work wonders."  
  
"Fine," Javert said and went to the window. He threw it open with a bit more force than necessary, irritated at Valjean's cavalier attitude regarding his health. What if it  _was_  a fever? Javert should mention the possibility to the portress and have her watch for symptoms when she brought Valjean his meals, just to be safe. But when he turned back, Valjean's face looked already less flushed, so perhaps Valjean had been right after all.

Valjean reached for Cosette's envelope and slid it carefully out from under the breakfast plate. "I'll read and try to think of something that will keep Cosette from hounding you at the station-house," he said with a thread of amusement in his voice. He touched the front of the envelope with a tender hand; Javert watched him trace a light finger over the ‘Inspector Javert’ Cosette had written, following each loop until it stilled at the final T. "That should not be too strenuous."  
  
Javert looked up from his study of Valjean’s hands. "Do you think she would actually return to the station-house?" he asked, a little alarmed at the notion. He remembered Moreau's speculative gaze upon the pocket which stored Cosette's letter and grimaced.    
  
"She might," Valjean said. "She went there once before, after all." But now his tone was distracted, his eyes fixed eagerly upon the sheets of paper he pulled from the envelope.   
  
Javert frowned. "Then we'd best get a proper response ready for her tonight." He put the dishes into the dirtied water of the basin, and then finished buttoning up his shirt. He put on his coat, did up his cravat, and smoothed out the wrinkles until he at last looked presentable. Then he donned his hat, tucked his truncheon back into his pocket, and turned towards the bed to see Valjean smiling softly at the letter.  
   
"I'll see you this evening," Javert said, although he doubted Valjean was even listening.   
  
But Valjean dragged his gaze from Cosette's letter to direct that small smile at Javert. It was a smile that made his eyes shine and brought out a healthy color in his face, one that spoke of bliss rather than fever. "This evening," he agreed, and let his obvious delight in whatever Cosette had written warm his voice. 

The combined smile and tone was a blow similar to the one Javert had experienced when Valjean had directed that sun-soothed expression at him. Javert found that he was a little breathless even as one corner of his mouth turned up in response. He seized the basin and left before he could do anything ridiculous like repeat his farewell or ask again if Valjean thought it likely Cosette would march back into the station-house and demand answers, say anything just to linger a minute or two longer. 

"Thank you, Inspector," said the portress when he set the basin down on the kitchen table, and Javert grunted in acknowledgement.   
  
He hesitated for a moment, remembering the fading flush on Valjean's face, the way sweat had beaded his forehead. Javert frowned, and then made a decision. It was always better to be watchful. "Monsieur Fauchelevent was exposed to the night air last evening. If you can, check in on him and make certain it did not cause any ill effects."  
  
"Yes, monsieur," the portress said, looking worried. Then it was her turn to pause. "Will you return this evening in time for supper?"  
  
"I should, unless work delays me. I will be here each evening until-- well, at least until the doctor gives permission for Madame Pontmercy to visit," Javert said, the words sticking strangely in his throat. He had not thought hard on that until now, or considered what would happen afterwards. He imagined the tearful reunion, Cosette insisting that Valjean come stay with her and her husband at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6, and Valjean agreeing.

Javert could and would visit, of course, but it made an awkward picture, him with his hat in hand, waiting to be ushered up the stairs by a servant to Valjean’s room. And he would have to pay a cab to get to the Pontmercy house, for it was too far from both the station-house and his own apartment to walk unless he wanted to arrive there after midnight and rouse everyone from their beds. He thought of his pocket-money, which he handled carefully, and winced a little at the thought of his savings dwindling. And there was still the matter of mending his pants, an extra expense.      
  
"Monsieur Javert?" the portress said hesitantly, and he found he was standing there, frowning at nothing.    
  
He shook his head, twisted his lips into a polite look. "I plan to visit each evening until then, madame.” He thought of his coffers and added a little dryly, “You and I can discuss the payment of my meals then." He tipped his hat to her when she frowned and seemed about to object. "Good day."

 

* * *

 

Moreau entered the station-house a few minutes after Javert, brightening when his gaze fell upon Javert. The young sergeant looked eager for the hunt, and Javert felt his lips twitch in amusement as Moreau called out, "Inspector Javert! Just let me put my things away before we begin to question the informers. I thought we--"  
  
"Not in those clothes, you won't," Javert said before Moreau could continue. He raised an eyebrow at the sergeant's startled look. "Most informers do not appreciate being openly approached by men whose clothing practically shouts police."   
  
Moreau flushed. He visibly reined in some of his enthusiasm, taking a deep breath. "Oh yes, of course." His face fell a little as he looked down at his clothing. His coat was not a recent purchase, but new enough and preserved so well that it caught the eye. There was also the matter of his boots, polished until they shone. "But I didn't bring any off-duty clothing, monsieur…."

Javert waved a dismissive hand. "This is a police-station. I am certain you can borrow someone’s used coat, one that won’t draw all the pickpockets of Paris to you. And you’ll want to dirty up your boots."   
  
Some of the consternation left Moreau's face. "Oh, I see." Moreau cast a somewhat doubtful look at Javert and his worn coat and his towering height, but had the sense not to remark that Javert would not blend in particularly well in a crowd. Instead he nodded and went in search of another coat.

"Who shall we question first, Inspector?" Moreau asked, once he had borrowed a coat off Morel and stomped around in the mud outside the station-house’s door so that his boots looked more brown than black. "I thought perhaps Fontaine."  
  
Javert thought over this suggestion. "I'd thought Mullins, but Fontaine will work just as well."   
  
In the end, however, it was the informer Roux who gave them what they needed. Roux was likely not his true name, for it seemed more like a nickname given to the ex-thief due to his wild red mane, but in the four years Javert had known of the informer, no one had ever referred to him as anything other than Roux.   
  
"No idea where Thénardier went," Roux said flatly. He leaned against the alley wall, his large hands tucked into his pockets. "He knows as well as anyone he's for the guillotine if he's caught. He's clever; I’ll bet you five francs he found a hole to hide in and aims to stay there until everyone's forgotten about him." Then he frowned, that flat, thuggish face flickering with something almost like intelligence. "His girl's been poking her nose around, though, asking questions."  
  
Javert, who had watched the list of useful informers dwindle in the past few hours with a rising impatience, seized upon this like a dog snatching up a bone in his teeth. "Azelma," he said, and could almost taste victory. He let his lips draw back in a smile and ignored Moreau's startled twitch and the blanching of Roux's face. He leaned closer, fixed a sharp look upon Roux that made the police informer shudder. "What has she been poking her nose into, exactly?"

Roux stared back, his expression unnerved. He was sweating. “I just heard her asking about a wedding-party," he said hastily, "some wedding-party that passed through Pont-aux-Choux on the sixteenth of February. There was a cove in the wedding-cart with his arm done up in a black cravat. She wanted to know all about him."

"And?"

"A-and she was told to go to Bissette-- his washhouse was hired on by most of that day's weddings. He'd be the most likely to know anything, or one of his workers would. There's more gossip than laundry in a washhouse." Roux was babbling now, seemingly desperate to get Javert's attention off him.  
   
"Bissette," Javert repeated. He bared his teeth in another smile. He had the scent now, he was certain of it. Find Azelma and he would find her father. He turned to Moreau. "Do you know where Bissette's washhouse is?"  
  
"Yes, monsieur, it's not far from here," Moreau said. He fumbled for his pocket-book and pressed a few sous into Roux's hand. They walked quickly away from the informer. After a moment Moreau cleared his throat. "You'll be able to recognize the girl, Inspector?"  
  
It took a moment to bring the girl's face to mind, but the events at the Gorbeau House had been particularly memorable. Javert remembered her gaunt face and the astonishment in her dark eyes when one of his men had seized her, how she had howled until the instant the handcuffs snapped upon her wrists; then she had gone mute and pliant, like the cuffs had banished all resistance. "Yes," he said. "I doubt she has changed much since her arrest.”

Washhouses tended to be dens of misery, and Bissette's proved no exception. Javert bit back a scowl at the sight of the degenerates lingering at the open windows and peering in, obviously hoping to see scantily clad women. 

When they were escorted to Bissette's office, Javert found him to be a large man with a too-friendly smile that verged on uneasy. "My pleasure to help, Inspector," he said once Javert had explained their reasons for coming to the washhouse. He spoke rather too loudly, though Javert had asked him to keep his voice soft so as not to be overheard, and with an edge that made Javert wonder what else went on in this particular washhouse that might make its owner leery of the police. Bissette clapped his hands together and chuckled hoarsely. "You're asking after this Azelma girl? I assure you, monsieur inspector, if the girl's trouble, you can have her. We don't abide scandal in my washhouse!" 

Javert, who had seen enough canteens being passed among the laundresses to know Bissette plied his workers with brandy and wine and thus did not mind turning them into drunkards, did not quite roll his eyes. "We do not know if the girl has done anything wrong. It is her father we're after," he said. He paused, considering Bissette's choice of words, and leaned forward. "Do you mean to say that Azelma is  _here_?" 

Bissette nodded eagerly. "Yes, monsieur! At least, there is a girl who calls herself Azelma who came in asking about weddings a few days ago, but she was glad enough for a job when I offered her one. She might not be in the washhouse now; she's a washerwoman, she might be on the street, but if you'd like to wait for her...."

"I would," Javert said, and something in his expression made Bissette's too-wide smile pinch at the corners. He turned to Moreau, taking the sergeant by the arm, and muttered in his ear, "Return to the station-house and collect at least four more men in plain clothes similar to yours. Then wait out on the street. I'll keep an eye out for the girl, and we'll follow her home at the end of her shift and seize Thénardier there."  

"Yes, Inspector," said Moreau, his eyes bright with excitement. 

"Show me to a place where I can watch the washerwomen unobserved," Javert commanded, and Bissette, stammering a little, did. 

As Bissette had suggested, Azelma was not in the washhouse. Javert settled himself in for a long wait-- he didn't remember the girl being very strong. Rather, she had had the pinched look of someone who was often ill and always hungry. Doubtless it would take her some time to traverse the streets with a full laundry basket. He shook his head. Strange, that a daughter of Thénardier would actually try to earn an honest day's wages. He had believed that corruption and the sin of sloth ran through that entire family. 

Then again, Javert thought, remembering the other Thénardier girl’s death at the barricade, perhaps the sins of the father did not fall upon the children after all. He tugged his cap lower to better obscure his face, and waited.

It was another two hours before Azelma returned. He recognized that frail, too-thin form and its cautious walk in an instant. He watched her grip her basket and eye the overcrowded wash tubs. Then she squared her shoulders and pushed her way past her fellow washerwomen, snarling and dodging blows until she'd gained a spot at a wash tub. She worked steadily, her dark head bowed as she washed the clothes and used her elbows to shove away anyone who tried to steal her place. It was long, grueling work, and Javert doubted that she would finish until early evening. 

Javert made himself comfortable, leaning against the wall to wait for the end of the girl's shift. He patted his pocket and reassured that he had his snuff-box, though he did not take it out. He was pleased, not complacent. Things might go wrong. Azelma could spot that she was being tailed and escape them. Or she could have taken the washerwoman position because her father had abandoned her. Still, Javert thought neither circumstance likely-- the girl would be too weary to watch over her shoulder for police, and he suspected that Thénardier needed her as his eyes and ears while he remained in hiding.

Javert did not let his thoughts drift or picture Valjean's expression when he learned he was free of Thénardier for good, but rather kept his gaze fixed upon the girl and contemplated the various scenarios likely to occur once he had followed her to Thénardier's hide-away. 

When Azelma finished the washing, she took the laundry to where it would dry overnight. In the morning, if she had not been arrested alongside her father, she would take the laundry back to their owners. He watched her pause, her head bowed in weariness, before she reported for her day's earnings. Then he finally stirred from his post, following her out into the twilight. He caught sight of Moreau standing across the street. Somewhere nearby, the other agents were watching and ready to follow. 

Javert had been right. Azelma was too weary to look behind her. She kept her head down, nearly tripping over her feet in exhaustion, moving slowly but surely into one of the poorer neighborhoods of the city. At last she turned towards an apartment, offering a hoarse greeting to the woman sweeping the sidewalk. 

"Inspector Javert?" Moreau said softly as they watched her mount the steps. 

"Have two men watch the entrance and another guard the back in case there's a way to escape," Javert hissed. "You and the last officer will follow me. We'll catch them both in the apartment." 

Moreau nodded, and Javert followed the girl into the building. She hovered in front of a door, fumbling weakly for her key. Her hands shook as she unlocked her room. When she entered and went to close the door behind her, Javert made his move. He thrust out his cane, catching the door before it could completely shut, and then bore his full weight against the door so that it swung open.

Azelma whirled towards the entrance from where she had just lit a candle, the burning match still in her hand. When she saw Javert, she gave a terrible start, her face paling and her eyes widening in recognition. "J-J--" she began to stammer, but his name seemed caught in her throat and she subsided, staring at him with a stricken expression. 

Javert turned up the corners of his lips in an approximation of a pleasant smile. It made her shudder instead, the movement wild enough that the flaming match went out. "I have an appointment with your father," he informed her even as his gaze swept over the small, cramped room with its single bed and a small mattress that Azelma presumably slept on. There seemed to be no sign of Thénardier, but Javert kept a firm grip on his cane. "Or rather, your father has an appointment with the guillotine. Be a good girl and answer my question. Where is Thénardier?" 

"He-- he isn't here," Azelma said. Her voice was thick with something that veered dangerously between despair and rage. "He's gone to blackmail some rich cove and get enough money for us to leave Paris." 

"Really," Javert murmured. "And would this be the same rich cove you were asking about who was in a wedding-party on the sixteenth of February?"

Azelma shrugged, her expression mulish. "You said question, not questions. I answered one. That's all I'm saying." She stalked over to her mattress and sat down, curling up with her head upon her knees. After a moment, she began to sing to herself in a hoarse, cracked voice. Javert didn't recognize the song. 

Footsteps alerted him to someone's approach, and he half-turned, keeping one eye on Azelma and the other on the door. It was Moreau and his fellow sergeant. The other sergeant, whose name escaped Javert, had a pistol out. Javert frowned at it. "No need for that," he remarked. "Thénardier is apparently out on an errand, and the girl is going to stay in her corner and keep well out of it." 

The sergeant, who Javert thought was named Dubois, looked stubborn and didn't put away the pistol. Instead Dubois exchanged a look with Moreau, who frowned and said, "I was there at the Gorbeau House, Inspector Javert. I remember how Thénardier tried to shoot you. Perhaps the pistol is a good idea." 

Azelma began to laugh suddenly. “I know you,” she said, staring at Moreau with a strange half-mad gleam in her eyes. “You grabbed me when Daddy was arrested. You were-- you were in front of Bissette’s!” She began to laugh louder, muffling the sound against her knees.  
  
"That's enough," Javert said after a moment, when it was apparent she wasn't going to stop giggling. She would obscure her father's approach if she kept up that level of noise.  
  
Azelma twitched and did not look at him, but slowly the laughter ebbed to quiet hiccoughs. She began to hum again to herself, quietly, her voice cracking every few notes.

“Stand on either side of the door; we’ll catch him as he enters,” Javert said to Moreau and Dubois. They obeyed wordlessly. There was a small writing desk in the far corner of the room, with a rickety chair. That spot would provide Javert with a clear view of the door but was at such an angle that Thénardier wouldn't immediately spot him. He settled himself carefully upon the chair, testing its weight before he rested his cane across his knees.  
  
When the doorknob began to rattle a while later, both Moreau and Dubois tensed and Azelma made another quiet hiccoughing sound. Javert adjusted his grip on his cane and smiled.  
  
Then the door swung open and a complete stranger stepped inside. Javert stared in stupefaction at the green spectacles, the thick nose, the respectable clothing. He started to his feet in surprise.  
  
Both Moreau and Dubois halted, having gone for the man as soon as he'd stepped inside. Their gazes flickered questioningly towards Javert.  
  
The man faltered in the entrance at the sight of the officers, alarmed. Then his eyes fell upon Javert as Javert moved forward; in the next instant his expression had twisted into a look of loathing Javert recognized despite the changed features. " _You_."  
  
Javert recovered quickly, and raised an eyebrow, smirking. "It is said that a leopard cannot change his spots, Thénardier, but it seems you have changed your face," he remarked. He hefted his cane and nodded at Moreau, who pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Be a good fellow and don't do anything foolish--"  
  
But Thénardier was already moving, throwing himself bodily against Dubois so that the man dropped his pistol and stumbled backwards, his head striking the wall with an unpleasant crack. Moreau lunged forward to seize Thénardier, but his hands were full with the handcuffs and Thénardier tripped him with a swift kick to the knee.   
  
Javert started forward, thinking that Thénardier meant to seize Dubois's pistol, but Thénardier reached into his too-large coat instead.  
  
The knife was large and almost as unpleasant as Thénardier's sneer. In her corner, Azelma was beginning to giggle again. "Come any closer and we'll see if you can avoid a knife as well as you do bullets," Thénardier snarled through gritted teeth, backing into the hallway as Javert held his cane like a truncheon and advanced upon him.  
   
"Enough, Thénardier," Javert said, keeping his gaze half on the man's face and half on the knife he clutched. "There are men posted at every exit. Resign yourself to the guillotine."  
   
Thénardier bared his teeth in answer, and then wheeled and ran.

Javert pursued. A fierce exultation swept over him. He found that he was smiling widely enough that his cheeks hurt as he chased down Thénardier. This was one of the parts he always liked best: the thrill of the chase and the knowledge that the criminal would soon be caught and delivered to justice. He adjusted his grip on his cane, made a few more long strides, and then swept Thénardier's legs out from under him with a swift, sure stroke. 

Thénardier hit the floor hard, cursing breathlessly. Before Thénardier could scramble to his feet, Javert pressed the cane against the spot between the man's shoulder-blades. He leaned his weight against the cane for a moment, until Thénardier grunted in pain and stopped thrashing about. 

"I told you not to be foolish," Javert said mildly. He eyed the knife still clutched in Thénardier's hand. "Drop the knife."

Thénardier swore in answer and kept a firm grasp on the weapon. 

"Inspector Javert," Moreau said. He moved to stand by Javert's side, scowling down at Thénardier. "Dubois is in a bad way. He hit his head against the wall. I think he'll need a doctor." Moreau spoke in short, clipped sentences, obviously furious. 

"Do you have your handcuffs?" Javert asked.

Moreau blinked. "No, I dropped them," he admitted. He had half-turned to retrieve them before Javert said, reaching into a pocket of his coat, "Here. Get the knife from him and then use the handcuffs. We'll see to Dubois in a moment."

Moreau accepted the handcuffs with a quick murmur of thanks.

"Fine," Thénardier snarled. "Fine, have it your way, Javert." The tension drained from the man's body, and his grip relaxed a little upon the knife. 

"You'll come along quietly?" Javert narrowed his eyes at this, suspicious of this sudden about face. Thénardier knew he was under a death sentence should he be arrested; but Javert remembered how he had hidden behind his grenadier of a wife once the pistol had failed to fire. Perhaps he was a coward at heart. 

"Yes," Thénardier said, resigned. 

Before Javert could order him a final time to toss the knife away, Moreau crouched next to Thénardier, one hand on the handcuffs. He reached for Thénardier's wrist with his other hand. "Drop the knife."  

"Yes, monsieur," Thénardier said meekly, before he seized the base of the cane and then rolled to the side, the sudden movement knocking Javert's cane out of the way. The knife flashed, and Moreau let out a quiet sound of surprise. 

Javert swore and lashed out with the cane, aiming for Thénardier's head, but the man moved at the last second and the cane struck Thénardier's shoulder instead, sending him crashing against the wall. 

"Enough of this," Javert growled, not allowing himself to be distracted by the way Moreau still knelt on the floor, the sergeant's hands pressing against his side and his face growing pale. Javert lashed out with his cane again, all enjoyment of the pursuit banished, wanting only to see Thénardier pinioned and delivered to prison. 

Thénardier dodged again, the cane dealing him a glancing blow across the top of his head that made him curse before he sprung upright and lunged at Javert. 

Javert brought up his cane just in time. The knife struck the wood instead of his chest. The weapon caught there for a moment before Thénardier yanked it free. They were too close to each other now, face to face; Javert couldn't swing out with his cane and Thénardier couldn't get a good angle to stab him, though he made a few aborted attempts. 

At some point Thénardier's spectacles had fallen off. His eyes met Javert's, dark with hatred. There was the panicked look of a trapped animal upon his face. This close, Javert could see what looked to be a quill in the man’s nostril, obviously used to change the shape of his nose. Thénardier lashed out with the knife again, and Javert dodged, the blade cutting into his greatcoat instead of his stomach. 

Before Thénardier could attempt another strike, Javert twisted his cane in his grip and thrust it at Thénardier's wrist, trying to knock the knife away. Thénardier stumbled, his back hitting the wall, but kept his hold on the knife. Still, his stumble gave Javert enough time to step back himself and get some distance from the man. He raised his cane, determined not to miss this time, and watched Thénardier's shoulders tense as Thénardier prepared himself for another lunge. 

The sound of a pistol's report checked them both. 

Thénardier shuddered, a vague look of astonishment on his face. The knife fell from his hand; he looked down and groped at his chest. The black clothes were too dark to show a wound, but when Thénardier pulled his hand away, it was stained with blood. He sank slowly to the floor, a long, slow sigh escaping him. 

Javert stared for a long moment at Thénardier's prone form, at the sightless eyes and the fixed expression of one caught by surprise by death. Then he turned to find Dubois leaning heavily against the wall. The sergeant was pale and clutching his pistol with a shaky hand, blood trickling down his face. Javert continued to stare. His mind had gone blank. He found himself, oddly, thinking of Azelma, presumably still curled up on her mattress. Had she heard the pistol fire? Did she know what it had meant? 

At length, he recovered and said in a flat tone that made Dubois wince, "When I said do not do anything foolish, perhaps I should have clarified that I meant _everyone_ in the room should be sensible. In the future, refrain from firing your pistol when you have a head-wound." 

"Yes, Monsieur Inspector," Dubois muttered, and then leaned more heavily against the wall, looking close to collapse. 

"Sit down," Javert ordered before the man could actually fall down, and then turned towards Moreau. The man was still kneeling, his head bowed and with a pallor Javert did not like. His hands were pressed tightly to his side, but blood stained the coat. Javert knelt next to him. "Let me see." 

The wound, when Moreau briefly moved his hands, was deep and terrible-looking, but no foul smell came off it, and it seemed to be only blood that streamed from the cut. Javert prayed that meant it had not hit anything vital. He forced Moreau's hands back against the wound. "I'll summon the men outside. We'll get you to a hospital." 

Moreau managed a weak nod just as there was a quiet thud behind Javert. He turned to find that Dubois had slumped over, his pistol still dangling loosely in his unconscious grip.

“We’ll get you both to a hospital,” Javert corrected himself, and got to his feet. He tugged the pistol from Dubois' hand and tucked it into his pocket. Then he went outside.

"Monsieur! We thought we heard a shot, but we didn't want to leave our posts," one of the agents said in an anxious tone as Javert emerged into the twilight. 

Javert pursed his lips. The night hadn't gone as planned, and he found most of his good humor was gone in the wake of seeing two good men injured. "Thénardier is dead. Dubois and Moreau need a hospital," he said shortly. "Call for a cab." 

"Yes, monsieur," one of the men said; he raced off to find a carriage.

The other man, whose name entirely escaped Javert, frowned. "You need a hospital, too, Inspector," he said. 

"What?" Javert snapped, and the agent gestured. Javert looked down to see the blood darkening his tan trousers. It was only then that his body seemed to register an injury; his right leg began to throb with a white-hot intensity. "Damn," he said sourly, pushing aside his coat and discovering that one of Thénardier's wild swings had bitten into his leg, cutting through cloth and opening a long but shallow cut. He observed it for a few seconds; it bled sluggishly, and the trickle of blood seemed to already be slowing. "Well, since I have not collapsed, I don't think it's as serious as Dubois and Moreau." 

"Monsieur," the man agreed, though he darted another anxious glance at Javert's leg.

Javert took off his cravat, binding the wound. "Come, do you know anything of knife wounds?" The man shook his head, and Javert scowled. "We really should learn how to handle injuries, rather than be forced to stand around like ninnies when a fellow officer is hurt."

He went back inside, favoring his leg as it protested every movement. Moreau and Dubois were where he had left them, though Moreau's head was bowed even more and sweat dripped down his face. "The cab will be here soon," Javert said, and Moreau attempted a faint smile. 

The agent crouched next to Thénardier's body. He let out a hoarse, unpleasant laugh as he touched Thénardier's nose and two quills fell to the floor with a quiet clatter, revealing Thénardier's sharp nose. "The work of 'the Changer,' I'll bet you five francs."

Javert didn't bother to respond. Instead he returned to the room where he had left Azelma. She was still seated on her mattress, motionless, only the slight rise and fall of her chest showing that she was flesh rather than stone. When he entered, she lifted her face to him. She wore a resigned expression, her eyes anguished but dry. 

"He's dead," she said. It was not a question. 

"He is," Javert agreed. He kept his tone neutral. He placed his hands upon the top of his cane and rested his weight against it as his leg continued to ache. "But he was a dead man already."

Azelma didn't blink, her dark eyes fixed upon him. "He's dead," she repeated, slowly, as though testing the words. Then she began to laugh. It was a terrible sound, that laugh, hoarse and bitter. She began to rock back and forth almost violently. "Who would have guessed that? I'm the last one.  _I_  lived, not 'ponine, not Gavroche, not Daddy or Mommy--" She kept laughing until suddenly the laughter caught in her throat and turned into dry, heaving sobs. 

Javert was still observing her in her grief when the agent called from the door in a wondering tone, "Inspector Javert, you'll never believe what I found in Thénardier's pocket! A five-hundred franc note!" 

"Five hundred francs, when he wanted twenty thousand," Azelma gasped out. "So much for all his plans!" She dragged herself upright and stumbled towards the door, weaving like she was drunk. 

Javert followed her and watched as she crouched down next to her father's body. Her expression was unreadable but her eyes were still free of tears and burned with a strange light as she stared. She reached out but did not quite touch Thénardier's shoulder. 

"You will be able to retrieve his body later, once we've finished the paperwork," Javert said. He kept his tone matter-of-fact even as a sentiment that was not quite pity twisted his stomach.

He wasn't surprised when she laughed, scorn in the sound. "And how am I to pay for the burial? Take him and be done with it." Still she stared as though she couldn't bring herself to look away from her father's dead face. She bowed low over him and whispered something Javert couldn't catch. 

"A five-hundred franc note, Inspector," Moreau whispered weakly, his words ragged with pain and astonishment. "I couldn't believe it when I saw Laurent holding it. Where did Thénardier get that?"

"From the rich cove he meant to blackmail," Azelma said. She didn't look at them. Instead she continued in a dreamy tone. "Find the old man with the injured arm, he told me, and we'll be rich. We'll go to America, out of reach of the guillotine." 

"Perhaps the French guillotine, but an American noose would have suited his neck just as well," Javert muttered. 

"What is the gentleman's name?" Moreau said with effort. Javert saw that it was only his focus upon the conversation that kept Moreau from fainting as Dubois had. His glassy eyes peered in Azelma's direction. "We...should return the money." 

Azelma twitched her shoulders, bobbing her head in an awkward shrug. "The rich cove? Marius Pontmercy." 

"Pontmercy!" Moreau exclaimed, and then groaned in pain and clutched harder at his side even as Javert gave a start of amazement and silently swore.

He understood in a flash of enlightenment that the wedding-party must have been Cosette's, that the old man had been Valjean, and that Thénardier had recognized him and decided to blackmail Pontmercy for his silence. This night could go even worse if Javert didn't act quickly. He didn't think, just bent his head towards Azelma and said forcefully, "Not another word about Pontmercy or the old gentleman.  I know exactly what your father was trying to do, and I'll not have his lies sully that family's good name." 

Azelma looked at him, uncomprehending, and then slowly she nodded, something like acceptance in her eyes. "I told him he was seeing ghosts," she said. She laughed again, bitterly. "I suppose Pontmercy gave him the five-hundred francs just to be rid of him. What's five-hundred francs to a rich cove?" 

Satisfied that she would keep quiet, Javert turned next to Moreau, who was staring at him with a strange expression.

"Who is Pontmercy?" Laurent asked, his puzzled gaze flickering between Javert and Moreau. 

Moreau coughed. "The husband of the young lady who visited the inspector a few days ago, I think," he said weakly, still staring at Javert. "I thought-- forgive me, monsieur, I should have known better than to think-- she came to you for help concerning her husband's troubles, of course." 

"Something like that," Javert said in a vague tone. He was thinking quickly. How to spin this into something that sounded reasonable and wouldn't cause Gisquet to ask too many questions? "Her father had feared something like this might happen." He pursed his lips and considered Moreau's speculative look and his interest in Cosette's letter. "Somehow I don't think I wish to know what you thought of Madame Pontmercy's visit to the police-station and my three days of leave," he remarked wryly, and watched a few spots of color struggle into view on Moreau's wan visage. 

"Probably not, monsieur," Moreau agreed. He closed his eyes in pain.

"You'll talk yourself to death, you will," Azelma commented, and Moreau made a sound that might have been a laugh or a groan.

Javert turned almost gratefully to the sound of approaching footsteps. "Got a hackney outside, Inspector," the agent said, a little breathless. He leaned over, taking in a deep breath and swiping at the sweat trickling down his face. He had obviously run quite a ways in search of a carriage. 

The fourth man who'd been stationed at the back of the building followed closely behind, his curious gaze taking in the scene, but he said only, "Who should we get into the cab first, Inspector Javert?"

"Moreau," Javert said at the same time Moreau said, "Dubois." 

"He  _is_  unconscious," Moreau said, managing a sickly smile when Javert frowned at him. "I think that might mean his injury is worse." The ashen pallor of his face belied his words, for Dubois, though unconscious, still had some color in his cheeks. 

"Take Dubois," Javert said to the two agents, and then turned to Laurent, who still clutched the five-hundred franc note. He extended his hand, and, after a start and a look of surprise at the note, Laurent passed him the money. "I'll return the money to Pontmercy tonight. Now help me with Moreau. We can leave a man posted here and collect Thénardier later." 

He spared a quick glance at Azelma, who still crouched next to her father's corpse. Her expression had gone blank, the look of one overwhelmed by so much exhaustion and grief that they couldn't feel anything at all. He bent down to her and said, softly so that the others might not hear, "If you still wish to keep your job at Bissette's, I will go tomorrow and speak to him. It will make a change of pace, a Thénardier working an honest job."

Azelma didn't blink. No emotion returned to her face, but slowly she nodded and murmured a soft, "Yes, monsieur." 

"Very well," he said, straightening with a grimace as his leg throbbed all the more painfully. He leaned against his cane and caught his breath. "Let's go," he said to the agents. 

The ride to the hospital seemed too long, and Javert disliked the way Moreau whimpered each time they hit a hole in the road. But at last they were there, and Javert could deliver Moreau and Dubois over to the doctors. 

"And Inspector Javert needs his leg looked at," Laurent said once Moreau and Dubois had been ferried away.

Javert grimaced, but endured a doctor prodding at the wound and deciding that a few stitches were necessary. He refused the laudanum the man offered -- he wanted his head clear for when he delivered his verbal reports, both to Gisquet and to Valjean -- and bore the needle with ill humor.  By the time he had collected Thénardier's body and returned to the police-station, Javert had a suitable report for the Prefect composed in his head. It was not remotely honest, but Javert would have to endure the lie once more. At least he could tell the truth to Valjean afterwards.  

He was rather taken aback, then, when Gisquet held up a hand before Javert could speak and said somewhat tiredly, "I do not want to hear it."

"Monsieur le Prefet?" Javert said, blinking. 

"I might have known your disappearance for three days was part of a case," Gisquet said. Upon further inspection of his superior, Javert realized that Gisquet looked a mixture of amused and exasperated. "It is perfectly clear what happened. Thénardier threatened blackmail to Monsieur Pontmercy. Pontmercy’s wife came to you for assistance and your discretion. I have investigated a little into the matter of Pontmercy-- his grandfather is a man of quality. I understand your desire to keep that good name out of the possible scandal. But next time, Javert, just _tell_ me that you are on a case."

Javert stared for a moment. He opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again to say, "Yes, Monsieur le Prefet. Now, about Thénardier--"  
   
Gisquet waved a hand. "From Laurent's report, this Thénardier had injured three officers and was already under the sentence of death when he was killed. We were simply saved the cost of the executioner."  
  
"Yes, Monsieur le Prefet," Javert agreed, on steadier ground as his surprise faded and was replaced by relief that he would not have to lie once more to the Prefect's face. "Though I admit I would have preferred an arrest if just for Dubois and Moreau's sake."  
  
Gisquet twisted his mouth. "Yes. What did the doctors say about their chances?"  
  
"With Dubois, it will be hard to say until he wakes up. Either it is only a glancing head wound or he's done himself serious damage, though I am hopeful for the former. He did manage to aim his pistol and shoot the right man, after all. And as for Moreau-- well. The wound was deep but they said the knife didn't seem to have struck any organs. If he makes it through the night and doesn't succumb to fever or infection, he should recover."

"Then let us pray for that," Gisquet said. He narrowed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the desk as he examined Javert with a too-sharp gaze. "Laurent also mentioned you were injured."  
  
Javert's leg throbbed at the reminder, and he resisted the urge to adjust his stance under the Prefect's assessing gaze. "A scratch, Monsieur le Prefet, and one that only needed a few stitches. It's annoying, but nothing to keep me at the hospital or away from my post."  
  
Gisquet sighed. "Only a few stitches," he repeated dryly. "Still, you'll want to rest that leg. Go and get some rest. You can report back for desk duty tomorrow afternoon." When Javert opened his mouth to protest, Gisquet glared. "I am already down two men, I am not having you worsen your injury by walking around the streets instead of letting the wound heal."  
  
"Yes, Monsieur le Prefet," Javert muttered, and bowed at Gisquet's curt dismissal.

 

* * *

 

Javert emerged from the station-house and was halfway down the street when his leg tried to buckle under him. He winced, leaning against his cane, and privately admitted that perhaps it would be sensible to hail a fiacre rather than hobble his way along the sidewalks of Paris.

When he arrived at the Rue de l'Homme Arme, however, he found that the windows were ablaze with light and there was already a carriage outside. Javert handed his driver the payment and stalked towards the house as quickly as his leg, which had become cramped and stiff during the carriage ride, would allow. His mind whirled. Did the carriage belong to the doctor? Had Valjean truly suffered from being out in the night air and experienced some sort of relapse?  
  
Some of his alarm was eased when the portress met him coming down the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron and favoring him with a bright smile. "I've no doubt this is your doing, monsieur, and I thank you for it," she said happily. "As soon as he saw his daughter, Monsieur Fauchelevent was a changed man!"  
  
"Madame Pontmercy is here," Javert said slowly, then shook his head at his own surprise. His leg and his preoccupation with keeping Valjean well out of the affair had made him stupid. Thénardier had blackmailed Pontmercy; Javert had heard that from Azelma's own lips. Of course Pontmercy would seek Valjean out, if only to demand an explanation.

Javert stood there for a moment, thinking. So Valjean and Cosette were reunited, as Javert had promised. If Cosette's husband was displeased with Valjean over the loss of five hundred francs, Javert was certain Cosette could smooth all ruffled feathers. Why should he continue up the stairs? He would only intrude. He could write up the details of Thénardier’s death and send the letter and the five hundred franc note to Valjean in the morning. He would miss Valjean's relieved expression, but better that than spoiling a touching domestic scene with his unnecessary presence.

"I should--" he began, but the portress spoke over him, still cheerful.  
  
"I've just taken up some tea. I'll fetch you a cup, inspector."  
  
When he only stared, she laughed and fluttered her hands at him. "I am certain Monsieur Fauchelevent wants to thank you for delivering Madame Pontmercy and her husband to him! Go on, monsieur, I'll get you a cup."

"Madame," Javert said in some exasperation, for she was clearly set on thinking he had masterminded Cosette's return. "I do not wish to intrude. If you'll carry my greetings to them, I will take my leav--"  
  
"Monsieur Javert!" The exclamation rang down the staircase, and Javert resisted the urge to sigh as he looked up to find Cosette beaming with delight. She all but flew down the stairs. Her small, delicate hand proved to have a grip as forceful and unyielding as her father’s when she seized his free hand. "I am very vexed with you," she announced. Merry laughter belied her words as she drew him up the stairs. "Your letter was so short and unhelpful! And then you didn't answer the letter I left with your man at the police-station! And _then_ I find that Papa has been here all the while! I do not understand why you would keep him hidden from me."  
  
"He was ill. If the doctor had agreed, I would have sent for you in a few days," Javert muttered. He tried in vain to tug his hand from Cosette's grasp, but she merely tightened her grip and continued up to Valjean's rooms.

"If he was ill, then you should have sent for me immediately," she said. She directed another scolding look at him. "I may not look it, but I could be a proper nurse if I set my mind to it. Papa will get all the strawberries he can eat. Strawberries are very good medicine, you see. I am certain the doctor will agree with me."  
  
"Strawberries? Well--" Javert began, for she seemed to be expecting some sort of response, but then they were through the door and inside the antechamber. Javert assessed the scene in an instant. Valjean sat in the arm-chair, transformed indeed-- he fairly glowed with health and happiness-- and a familiar young man stood next to him. Javert stared at Pontmercy, nodding slowly as certain suspicions were confirmed. So Cosette’s Marius Pontmercy was not only a failed revolutionary, but that booby of a lawyer as well.   
  
Javert hovered in the doorway as Cosette finally released his hand and rushed to perch herself on Valjean's knee. She dropped a kiss upon Valjean's forehead and announced, laughing, "Look who I found on the stairs, Papa!"  
  
Pontmercy, whose attention had been fixed upon his wife, finally looked to where Javert stood. His eyes widened in shock and recognition, color leeching from his face. Then he did an extraordinary thing. Javert watched in bemusement as the young man squared his shoulders, lifted his chin in a challenging look, and stepped forward so that he blocked Javert’s view of Valjean and Cosette. "Inspector Javert," he said through gritted teeth. "I understand that you have your duty, but this man is an angel. You shall not have him."

Abruptly, Javert understood. Pontmercy thought he was here to arrest Valjean, and meant to protect his wife's father. Javert laughed in genuine amusement. Though Pontmercy flinched at the sound, he nevertheless stood firm. "I am not here for that," Javert informed him. Then he narrowed his eyes. "Though since we are discussing my duty as an inspector, I should remind you that you owe me two pistols."

Confusion replaced the stubbornness on Pontmercy's face. "Two pistols?" he repeated faintly, and then Cosette spoke up.

"Marius, whatever are thou doing? This is Inspector Javert! He is an old friend of Papa's."  
  
"An old friend?" Pontmercy said, even more faintly. He looked completely bewildered now, and Javert couldn't help but smirk at the man's bafflement.  
   
"There is also the matter of some five hundred francs you were forced to hand over to a criminal earlier," Javert continued, fishing around in his pocket for the note. He offered it to Pontmercy, and then wiggled it when Pontmercy made no move to take it. "I have it on good authority that this money is yours."

Pontmercy stared at the bank-note as though Javert offered him a dead rat. "I did give a man some money earlier, Inspector," he said slowly, taking the bank-note after a long pause, "but it was for fifteen hundred francs and I did it of my own free will. How did you come by that bank-note?"  
  
Javert's amusement vanished. "Fifteen hundred," he repeated flatly. He thought of the way Laurent had clutched the bank-note, considered the likelihood that Laurent had not searched the body for more money, and scowled.  
   
"How did you come by that money, monsieur?" Pontmercy repeated, his tone insistent, even as Cosette darted a puzzled glance between them and said, "What is all this about money and criminals?"   
  
Javert put the matter of Laurent to one side. He would deal with it tomorrow. He looked instead past Pontmercy to Valjean, who had been sitting there quietly. Some of his good humor returned at the sight of the other man, for Cosette's return had worked wonders. Valjean still looked too thin, but there was a ruddy flush to his cheeks and a few years seemed to have dropped off him in a matter of hours.  

Javert rested his weight against his cane, for his leg was beginning to complain about him standing in one place, a dull throbbing that he did his best to ignore. He fixed his gaze upon Valjean and said to him, satisfaction coloring each word, "Thénardier will not trouble you any more."  
  
He watched for Valjean's reaction. The other man's smile did not widen or dim, but his brow furrowed a little in apparent surprise. "You arrested him?"  
  
"That was the plan," Javert said a trifle dryly, "until he injured two of my men. No, the man is dead."

“Dead!” Pontmercy exclaimed, but Javert kept his gaze upon Valjean.

Javert wasn't certain what he had expected from Valjean, but this wasn't it. Valjean’s lips twisted, as though uncertain whether they wished to smile or scowl, and then settled into a frown. "Dead," he echoed, and Javert couldn't guess at his tone, though it was not encouraging.  
         
Javert found himself leaning forward towards Valjean until he was half-bowed over his cane. "He had already been sentenced to death by the court," he said, groping for the right words. He seemed to only make matters worse, for Valjean's expression tightened further until Valjean began to look a little ill. "He was a dead man walking. He simply chose to die by a bullet rather than the guillotine."

"Enough," Valjean said, though there was no force in the word. He closed his eyes, as though gathering his strength, then added, "I should not-- I _cannot_ be glad that a man is dead, no matter what kind of man he was in life. I wish you had not done this."  
   
Javert couldn't make sense of it. Was Valjean actually sorry that the scoundrel had been killed? He was grinding his teeth in frustration until his jaw ached, he found; he took in a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm himself. "I do not understand you. You tell me that you worry about Thénardier, you must have heard that the man was so outrageous as to blackmail your son-in-law, and yet you look at me as though I am the very devil when I tell you Thénardier is dead."

"I don't understand any of this," Cosette interjected. When Javert tore his gaze from Valjean's strained features, he saw that she was pale and had begun to wring her hands in disquiet. "There's a man dead, you announce, and then expect Papa to be pleased. Why should my father be happy at someone else's misfortune?" She frowned, a shadow passing over her face. "Thénardier," she said softly, as though testing out the name. "Why does that name sound so familiar?"  
  
"Cosette," Valjean said in a tender tone, and took her hands in his. "Thénardier owned the inn where thou lived for a time before God delivered thee to me. I do not know what thou might remember of that time, but...he was not a kind man."  
  
"No," Cosette agreed. She blinked slowly and shuddered a little, as though emerging from a bad dream. She took a deep breath. Some of the color slowly returned to her face as she raised her and Valjean's clasped hands to her lips and kissed his hands. "Papa, I do not remember much, but I...do not think I would like this man if I did. I am sorry that he is dead, but not as sorry as I should be."  
  
"Thénardier might not have been a kind or good man, but I owed him a debt," Pontmercy said suddenly. "Monsieur, I gave him that money. He saved my father's life at Waterloo."  
  
Javert couldn't help but remark, "That seems unlikely, except perhaps through a happy accident. But enough, we are all agreed that Thénardier was a scoundrel, so I must ask.” He looked directly at Valjean. “Why do you look at me as though I carry the mark of Cain instead of bringing you good news?”  
  
"Because you tell me you've killed the man and then look pleased, like a cat who has brought a mouse to its master!" Valjean said. The snapped words made Cosette stare at him in astonishment and leap off his knee.

The words struck home where Thénardier’s knife had failed, sliding between Javert's ribs. He rocked back on his heels, wincing as the movement tugged at the stitches and made the wound throb all the more painfully, like a dozen small needles piercing his thigh. For a second he could not speak, only watch as Valjean's expression turned instantly stricken.  
   
"Javert, I did not--"  
  
"Better a cat than a dog, I suppose," Javert said. In a distant way, he was surprised at the evenness of his voice. "A cat obeys his own whims. Whoever heard of a cat brought to heel?"  
  
"Javert," Valjean said a little helplessly, as Cosette and Pontmercy stood as still as statues.  
  
"And I must correct you on the other matter," Javert continued, ignoring the note of entreaty in Valjean's voice. Each word was precise now, and sharp enough to cut glass. " _I_ did not kill Thénardier. He was shot by one of my men, who took exception to having his head bashed against the wall and seeing his fellow officers harmed." He turned to Cosette and Pontmercy. It took him a moment to fumble for his hat, his fingers strangely graceless, but then he finally succeeded in tipping his hat in Cosette's direction in farewell. "I will investigate the matter of the thousand francs tomorrow and see that they are returned to you." 

"Inspector," Cosette said and stopped, biting at her lower lip and saying nothing more. Her hands fluttered at her sides, as though she groped for words as intently he had earlier, but finally stilled. She said nothing.

"Goodnight, madame," Javert said. He turned to go, only to find the portress in the doorway with a tea cup; she was peering at the scene in obvious fascination, her eyes bright with curiosity. Irritation broke through the numbness that had spread through him, and he snarled, "I told you earlier, I am not staying for tea." 

The portress paled a little at his tone and took a hasty step back. "My mistake, monsieur," she muttered, and hurriedly retreated into the hallway and down the stairs. 

As soon as she was gone, Javert stepped towards the exit. The pain in his leg intensified at the movement, darkness edging his vision. He gritted his teeth, adjusting his stride to keep most of his weight off of that leg as he took another step forward. 

A hand checked his progress, pressing down upon his shoulder so forcefully that Javert could feel the nails of each finger digging through his coat. Caught off-guard, he stumbled, unable to help the small grunt that escaped his lips as the discomfort in his leg flared into white-hot agony. 

"Javert," Valjean said, very low. When Javert turned his head, Valjean's face was too close to his. Valjean's upturned gaze was beseeching, his eyes dark with an emotion Javert couldn't name but suspected was guilt. "You must let me explain."

"Do you intend to claim you didn't mean it? And when you were so poetic about it." Javert hoped that Valjean would mistake the roughness of his voice for anger rather than pain. He took a deep breath, pushing his shoulder against Valjean's hand in a vain attempt to keep his weight off his leg, but Valjean's grip only tightened. "The image of me dropping Thénardier's corpse at your feet was quite vivid." 

"That was unkind of me," Valjean said.

Javert would have laughed if his throat hadn't been so tight. He saw with bitter amusement that Valjean was feeling the effects of his leap from the arm-chair and rush to seize Javert; sweat dripped down his face and he was breathing heavily. "You place too much emphasis on kindness as usual. You forget that honesty has its virtues as well. Now go sit down before you collapse and upset your daughter." 

"Not until you agree to stay and hear me out," Valjean said stubbornly. 

Javert did laugh then, though the sound hurt his throat. He wished Valjean would release him. He wished even more that his vision would stop dimming in an alarming way. He tried again to extract himself from Valjean's grasp but the weariness in Valjean's face did not extend to the strength of his grip. "You have no leverage this time. What type of truce can you conjure up now?" he said, or tried to. He couldn't hear his voice over the queer buzzing in his ears.   
  
He thought that Valjean said his name and that the other man's expression changed. But Javert's eyes refused to focus properly and the buzzing drowned out all other sound, so he was uncertain. He needed to leave, he remembered, though he couldn't recall why. He cast about for his cane, wondering vaguely when he had dropped it.   
  
"Javert," Valjean said, and now his voice was loud, cutting through the noise.   
  
Javert made a great effort to keep his eyes open, to meet Valjean's gaze, but his vision only dimmed further. Valjean's name stuck in his throat when he tried to answer. "Damn," he said instead, and the darkness swallowed him.   

 

* * *

 

Someone was muttering to himself, his low voice almost rhythmic. It took Javert a long moment to recognize the voice as Valjean's and the words as a prayer, and even longer for him to realize that he was no longer upright but stretched out upon something soft. He opened his eyes and found himself half-blinded by a pillow. He blinked and raised his head; he was in Valjean's bed, the covers pulled up to his chest and his hat and cane put out of his immediate line of sight. He wiggled his toes experimentally and was not surprised to find that someone had removed his boots.  
  
Valjean was seated in the arm-chair, his head bowed over his clasped hands. He looked up when Javert shifted, and the prayer stopped mid-sentence. "Javert," he said, and Javert's half-awake mind could not make sense of his tone.

Javert licked at his dry lips, trying to remember how he had ended up in Valjean's bed of all places. The memories returned slowly. He had come to tell Valjean about Thénardier, and they had argued, and then-- "Damn," he said, too irritated to be embarrassed.  
  
Valjean's lips thinned. "Yes. You might have mentioned that you were injured. Instead you collapsed, and there was blood--" He paused and took a deep breath. "Cosette and Marius have gone to fetch the doctor."  
  
"There's no need," Javert said, struggling into a sitting position. He regretted the action when the room spun around him for a dizzying moment. It was his turn to breath deeply. "A doctor has already looked at the wound and declared that it scarcely needed stitches."  
  
"And yet you collapsed," Valjean pointed out. His voice was low, almost a growl.

He was _angry_ , Javert realized, and belatedly noted the other signs of Valjean's distemper: the narrowed eyes; the furrow in his forehead; how his hands, no longer clasped together in prayer, now clenched and unclenched upon his knees as though he wished to strike Javert.

"Yes, well," Javert said, uncertain what to make of Valjean's fit of pique. Then again, he _had_ ruined the father and daughter reunion quite thoroughly. Cosette should be sitting next to Valjean and scolding him for making her worry, eager to cart him off to her house before the night grew too dark and cold. Cosette should not be roaming the streets in search of a doctor. Javert shifted uncomfortably, lowering his gaze. He plucked at the thick weave of the blanket, but there was no loose thread to tug. After a moment he muttered, "My apologies. I am sorry for ruining your reunion--"   
  
He stopped at Valjean's loud, incredulous laughter. "Do you think I am angry because of that? Cosette and I are reunited, all is forgiven; you could not ruin that even if you wished. No, I am angry because you were in pain while we argued and you said nothing!" The last sentence rose to a bellow.  

Javert stared. Valjean's face was red, his shoulders tense with repressed fury; for a moment he almost reminded Javert of how he had been at Toulon. But that Valjean would never have been angry with Javert for concealing an injury. Jean-le-Cric would have enjoyed his pain. Javert found his voice and said slowly, "We were already fighting about Thénardier. I thought mentioning my injury would only make things worse. Besides, I did not think I would faint over such an insignificant--" He paused, a thought striking him, and felt color rise to his face. He plucked at the covers once more, just in case a loose thread had escaped his notice after all. "Ah. Well. Perhaps I should have eaten something before I came here."  
  
There was a stretch of fraught silence. "When did you last eat?" Valjean's tone was dangerously even.  
  
Javert did not look up to watch Valjean's expression change as he admitted, "This morning." He jumped a little, wincing as he jostled his leg and set it to throbbing again, as Valjean called, " _Madame Mercier_!"  
  
The portress appeared in the doorway almost instantly; Javert did not doubt she'd been standing outside the room in the hope of overhearing something. "Yes, Monsieur Fauchelevent?"  
  
Valjean managed a smile in her direction, though it was closer to a bearing of his teeth than his usual kind smile. "Do you have any bread and cheese? The inspector ate neither lunch nor supper."  
  
"I was caught up in a case," Javert muttered at the woman's look. "I could hardly go up to the girl I was following and tell her to please stay in one place while I went and ate a mid-day meal."   
  
Neither Valjean nor the portress looked swayed by his argument. Madame Mercier said, "I'll get the bread and cheese, Monsieur Fauchelevent. And I think some tea wouldn't go amiss." 

Javert bowed his head in defeat. Apparently he would have tea whether he wished it or not. As soon as the portress had left, Javert cleared his throat and spoke quickly. He didn't know how long he had been unconscious, or how soon Cosette and Pontmercy would return with the doctor, and he did not want to be interrupted. "I realize you are unhappy that Thénardier is dead, Valjean, but know this: you are safe. His daughter thinks that Thénardier was mistaken about you. She will hold her tongue."

"Must we speak on this further?" Valjean said, sounding pained. When Javert looked at him, he looked more weary than angry. "I do not want to consider his death a boon, that I have gained my life's happiness with the price of a man's life." 

Javert shook his head. "I would argue that the man was no loss, unlike y--" He stopped, the words tangling in his head. It took him a moment to set them in proper order again and continue. "Thénardier would never have changed, only continued to flaunt the law and hurt the innocent. But I don't think that is something we will ever agree on, so we shall let that matter rest. Instead, remember that you nearly killed yourself over the mere thought that Thénardier might someday destroy your daughter's happiness. I will sit here and tell you the man is dead until you know yourself to be safe." 

Something shifted in Valjean's expression. "And is my peace of mind so important?"

"I should think that obvious by now," Javert snapped. "You tend to lose all reason and starve yourself without it." He was baffled by Valjean's small smile, as though he had said something amusing. 

"Well then, for my peace of mind, let the doctor look at your wound when he arrives."  

Javert pursed his lips. Valjean was watching him with an expectant look. "I hadn't planned to turn the doctor away, when your daughter went to the trouble of fetching him," he said a little dryly. "Though I still say it is not that serious. If I had had time to eat--" He paused at the sound of approaching footsteps. 

"The food and tea," the portress said briskly as she entered, and then turned to Valjean. "You'll see that he eats, Monsieur Fauchelevent?" 

"I am sitting right here," Javert said.

The portress shot him a look that clearly said she was done with his rudeness and that he would have to find some way back into her good graces if he wished to be treated as a gentleman and not a child. "If you need anything else, Monsieur Fauchelevent, simply call. You shouldn't be moving about either," she said, fixing Valjean with a sharp look.

"Yes, madame," Valjean said, smiling meekly. After she had gone, he remarked, "I shall have to find some way to apologize. We have both been terrible to the good woman these past few days." 

Javert snorted. "She is a busybody."

"She was kind to me," Valjean said. It was not a reproof, just as a statement of fact, but Javert shook his head.

"It always comes back to kindness with you," he said, and then reached for a piece of bread. He narrowed his eyes at his fingers, which trembled, but the shaking did not seem likely to cease until he'd eaten. Valjean had said something, he realized, and looked up in the middle of breaking off a large chunk of bread. "What?"

"Nothing," Valjean said. He relaxed against the arm-chair. His expression shifted and turned pensive. "You said other men were injured. Will they be all right?"

Javert's lips flattened as he thought on the pallor of Moreau's face. He caught a flash of sympathy in Valjean's eyes. He pulled the bread apart with a bit more force than necessary. "Time will tell. After I visit the washhouse tomorrow, I plan to go to the hospital and learn of their progress."

"The washhouse?"

Javert chewed a piece of bread slowly, buying time. At length, however, he had to swallow and answer. "Thénardier’s daughter works at a washhouse. That's how we tracked him down, through her. I need to go there and ensure that the owner hasn't done something foolish and fired her."

He was aware of the weight of Valjean's gaze; it pressed down upon his bowed head, but all Valjean said was, "I see." There was a satisfied tone in his voice, though, that made Javert sigh.

"You are thinking me some Good Samaritan again," he grumbled. "You shouldn't."

"I cannot help my thoughts," Valjean said, and Javert looked sharply at him. Valjean was smiling; the gesture softened the lines of his face and turned his expression almost tender, although Javert knew that could not be right. "Still, that was...I suppose you would call it sensible?"

"Yes, precisely. If she keeps her position, perhaps she will grow up somewhat respectable, unlike her parents."   

Valjean's smile widened but he did not contradict him. Instead he settled against the arm-chair and seemed content to watch Javert eat the bread and cheese and sip at the too-sweet tea. 

Javert had just swallowed the last mouthful of bread when a flurry of footsteps announced Cosette and Pontmercy's return. The same doctor who had tended to Valjean earlier in the week entered the room, satchel in hand. He raised an eyebrow and remarked dryly, "Forgive me, monsieur inspector, I didn't realize you were taking turns at being ill."

Javert scowled even as Valjean repressed a chuckle. " _I_ was injured in the line of duty," he said. "Not out of--" Cosette and Pontmercy entered behind the doctor, and he changed what he'd been about to say. "It is a small knife wound that only needed a few stitches. I stood on the injured leg for too long, that is all."

"After not eating for most of the day," Valjean interjected unhelpfully.

Javert narrowed his eyes at him but added, "After missing a few meals in pursuit of a criminal." 

The doctor nodded. He did not look surprised. "Monsieur Pontmercy said there was an old bloodstain and some fresh blood upon your trousers. You've probably torn the stitches. I will need to examine your leg." He set the satchel down at the end of the bed and looked at Javert expectantly. 

Javert's gaze darted towards Cosette, and he could feel his face warm. "It is rather high up on my leg," he muttered. 

Cosette looked puzzled for a moment. Then her eyes widened and a bit of pink flooded her cheeks. "Oh!" She tugged at her husband's sleeve. "Let us give them some privacy, Marius. The doctor does not need any distractions." Before they left, she turned a fierce look upon Javert, so like Valjean's that he started. "You and I shall have words, monsieur, when you are feeling better."  Despite her sweet voice, the words sounded almost like a threat. She closed the door with a firm click. 

Javert looked to Valjean, whose lips were twitching helplessly. "Why do I feel like I will need the doctor again after your daughter is through with me?" he asked, not expecting an answer. He began to push the covers to the side. He piled them up to afford some privacy as he bared the injured leg, though Valjean had already turned his gaze away.   
  
The doctor frowned. He examined the cut with a critical gaze and cautious touch that nevertheless sent sparks of pain up Javert's leg. "I'll have to re-stitch the wound," he declared after a moment. He rummaged around in his satchel. "We can wait until the laudanum takes effect, if you'd prefer."  
  
Javert grimaced. Some people equated laudanum with euphoria. Javert had always found its greatest effect upon him to be soporific. "Can you set some aside so I can take it later before I sleep?"  
   
"I would prefer you take it now, so that you don't flinch through the procedure," the doctor said.  
  
Javert almost laughed. "I didn't flinch with the first doctor when he stitched the wound. I think I will survive your effort. Besides, laudanum sends me instantly to sleep, and then I sleep like the dead."  
  
"That is not so different than how you usually sleep," Valjean remarked in not quite a mutter, but he was still looking away so he missed when Javert pursed his lips in his direction.

Javert caught the last vestiges of some muted emotion passing over the doctor's face as the man said, even more firmly than before, "I would prefer you take the laudanum now."  
  
"Then at least let me move to the other room first," Javert said, gesturing towards the room he had slept in previously. "I have apparently swooned and had to be carried to bed like a fool. Let me salvage some of my dignity and put myself to bed in the spare room."  
  
"You are not moving until your leg has been seen to," Valjean said before the doctor could answer. "A bed is a bed. If you fall asleep here, I can sleep in Toussaint's old room as well as anyone."  
  
He was being hounded by all comers. Valjean's expression had set like stone, and when Javert looked to appeal to the doctor about the foolishness of Valjean wasting energy walking to the other room, he found that the doctor was already pouring a bit of laudanum into an empty tea cup.  
   
"Very well," he said, defeated.  
  
Valjean, damn him, looked satisfied.

"I shall need a whole pot of coffee in the morning to wake up, if your portress hasn't gotten tired of me and refuses to give me any more. That would be a pity. Did you speak to her about opening up a cafe? You thought I wasn't serious, but I was. Her coffee is some of the best I've had. The doctor should try it before he goes. Doctors and policemen know that well-made coffee is priceless," Javert said, and then wondered why he was talking about coffee. He licked his lips, which were dry and tasted of cinnamon.  
  
"I will see that Madame Mercier has a pot ready in the morning," Valjean said. He sounded amused. "What time do you need me to wake you?"  
  
Javert frowned, trying to think, but his thoughts moved sluggishly. "When do washhouses open? Probably wretchedly early. But I must go and see that the girl is not fired. It is not her fault that her father was a scoundrel. And I do not trust the owner. He smiles too much. He is hiding something. I should investigate that once I have checked on Moreau and Dubois and gotten the thousand francs off Laurent. Damn the man anyway. A thousand francs might be tempting, but is it worth your integrity? In Montreuil-sur-Mer, I made sixteen sous a day, I wore my clothes to rags because I couldn't afford new ones. Not a fine state for a policeman to be in, but one needs to eat. You invited me once to dine with you, you remember, and I refused--"  
  
"Javert," Valjean said. His tone was not unkind, but something in it silenced Javert's tongue. "You need to be quiet and still while the doctor works."

Javert tried to keep quiet, but the words piled up in his head and filled up his mouth until he had to spit them out or choke. "He does owe me two pistols, that Pontmercy of yours. I was quite serious about that. Those pistols he made away with were docked from my pay. I am far better off than I was in Montreuil, and have some savings, but pistols are costly--"  
  
"I will remind him," Valjean said, back to sounding amused. "Now perhaps you should rest."  
  
Javert felt vaguely that he should have some objection, but upon reflection, he could think of no argument. Besides, his eyelids were already growing heavy, and his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his trousers as he made himself decent. He tugged the covers back to his waist when the doctor announced he was done and stepped back from the bed. "Very well. Your daughter can scold me in the morning over breakfast. But the doctor should examine you before he goes." He turned his gaze upon the doctor, who was bent over his satchel. "Now that his daughter is here, all should be well, but he was exposed to the night's air yesterday evening. You should examine him."  
  
"Was Madame Pontmercy who he needed then?" the doctor asked.   
  
Javert laughed. "Could you not tell in a moment?"  
  
"I was a bit distracted by your bleeding stitches," the doctor said dryly. He paused, and then added, "But yes, I take your meaning. Monsieur Fauchelevent, if you don't mind...."

Javert hadn't thought he had closed his eyes, but when he blinked and raised his head from the pillow, it was sunlight and not candlelight that temporarily blinded him. His mouth was dry and his leg ached, though it was a dull, bearable pain. He rubbed at his eyes, grimacing. 

He wondered what had woken him, but then Valjean said his name in a tone that suggested he had been repeating it for quite some time. When Javert lowered his hand and blinked at him, Valjean pressed a warm cup of coffee into his hands.

Valjean waited until Javert had drunk most of the coffee before he spoke in a hushed voice. "After you fell asleep, the doctor said you should keep off the leg as much as possible."

"The Prefect has already assigned me to desk duty for the next few days," Javert said. "I will hardly be chasing after criminals." The fog that inevitably clouded his mind when he took laudanum was slowly lifting. He frowned, glancing about the room. "Where are your daughter and Pontmercy?"

"Still in bed," Valjean said, nodding towards Cosette's old bedchamber. "I'll wake them when Madame Mercier brings up breakfast." He paused, a shadow crossing over his face. "I told Cosette the truth of my past and how her mother gave her to my keeping."

Javert stared. That must have been quite the conversation. He found himself both grateful and disappointed to have missed it. He searched Valjean's expression for clues, but though the other man seemed weary, he was not distraught. The conversation must not have gone as badly as he'd feared. "And how did she take it?"

"She was not pleased with me for keeping secrets," Valjean said wryly. Javert huffed out a sarcastic laugh. "But...." Valjean's hand crept to his cheek, pressing light fingers there as though remembering a gentle touch or kiss. A small, wondering smile curved his lips. "She still calls me Papa. I am to have a room at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 and a patch of garden. According to Cosette, I shall grow strawberries."

"That should suit you very well," Javert said, remembering M. Madeleine's habit of strolling in the fields and all the country knowledge he had passed on to Montreuil-sur-Mer’s peasants. He finished his coffee and stared at the dregs for a moment. "And how did you explain my presence? She must have asked." And if she had not, Javert thought to himself, it was certain that Pontmercy had. 

Valjean hesitated. When Javert raised his eyes to Valjean's face, there was a mixture of uncertainty and embarrassment there. "I told her that we met when you were a guard at Toulon, and that our paths had crossed over the years, but that you came to realize that I had changed from the man I was before," he said slowly. "I told her of that night at the barricades-- not all of it!" This was added rather hastily, when Javert tensed. "Just that we worked together to escape that madness, and that you helped me deliver Marius to his house." 

Javert felt the tension ease from his shoulders. "Wonderful," he said dryly. "So you told Madame Pontmercy just enough of the truth for her think me a Good Samaritan as well."

"Madame Pontmercy!" a bright merry voice exclaimed. Javert turned to see that Cosette, still wearing the previous day's now rather wrinkled dress, had left her bedchamber and now stood smiling at them both. She wrinkled her nose. "I must admit, monsieur, that while I enjoy calling my husband thou and being his wife, it is still strange to be called Madame Pontmercy. I always look around for the woman they are speaking to before I realize they are speaking to me." 

"Good morning, Cosette," Valjean said with a tender smile, and Cosette swooped down upon him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

"Good morning, Papa." She turned and planted her hands on her hips, looking at Javert with an assessing look that would have done a policeman proud. After a moment, she nodded, seemingly to herself. "I am glad to see you looking better, inspector. You gave us quite a scare last night!"

"Ah. Yes, I suppose I did," Javert said as she stared at him. Her face was shaped for kindness and constant smiles, which rather weakened her attempt at fierceness, but still he found himself fidgeting at her accusing look and down-turned lips. He looked towards Valjean, but the other man was no help; he watched the exchange with amusement. "I apologize for the alarm, madame. It wasn't my intention--" 

"I will forgive you if you do one thing for me," Cosette declared as he fumbled through his apology. "Papa told me that you plan to visit your men at the hospital and then go to the washhouse where Azelma works. Allow us to take you there before we take Papa to the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire."

"That is some distance out of your way," Javert objected.

Cosette wrinkled her nose once more, apparently unimpressed with his argument. "Yes, but I want to see that poor sergeant who was injured, the one who delivered my letter to you. He  _is_  the same man who's in the hospital now, is he not?" When Javert nodded, she looked satisfied. "Besides, I think my dear Marius would have a fit if he could not speak to Azelma and offer her some assistance." 

“Offer her some assistance-- oh, yes, his ‘debt’ to Thénardier.” Javert sneered in spite of himself, and ignored Cosette and Valjean's matching looks of reproof. 

"She and her mother are now alone in the world, monsieur," Pontmercy said, stumbling out of the room. He ran a hand through his mussed hair. His speech, though slurred from sleep, nevertheless had a ring of steel to it. "The money I gave her father should go to them."

"To her," Javert corrected. "Madame Thénardier died in prison some time ago." 

He had not thought it possible to choke on a yawn, but Pontmercy managed it, coughing and staring at him, color leaping into his cheeks and just as immediately blanching. "But Thénardier said," Pontmercy began. Then he paused, his lips tightening. "Well then, monsieur. That only strengthens my determination. She is all alone in the world. Someone must reach out a hand to her."

"And that hand is yours, of course," Javert muttered, but this time managed to keep his tone neutral rather than snide. Or at least he thought he had, until he caught sight of Valjean's brief shake of his head. 

"Indeed," Pontmercy said, oblivious. 

"That's settled then," Cosette said cheerfully, leaning up to press a kiss to her husband's cheek. "We shall eat, and then we shall go to the hospital and the washhouse. I wonder if I should bring poor Moreau a gift." 

"I did not agree to that, madame," Javert said, but she ignored him. He studied her smiling expression, Pontmercy's resolute one, and Valjean's amused mien, and realized that arguing would be a waste of breath. He had a sudden image of trying to leave the Rue de l'Homme Arme and the others trailing after him like determined ducklings. His lips twitched, and he looked away. 

As though he had not spoken, Cosette said, "I will go see if Madame Mercier needs any help with breakfast." She pressed another kiss to Pontmercy's cheek, and dropped a final one upon Valjean's forehead before she went from the room. 

Pontmercy cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "I believe I owe you my thanks as well, Inspector Javert. Father tells me that you helped bring me home to the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire after the barricade fell."

Father? It took Javert a moment to realize that Pontmercy meant Valjean. He slanted a glance in Valjean's direction to see what Valjean thought of that, but Valjean just looked pleased. Javert resisted the urge to sigh. Must Valjean persist in painting Javert as a Good Samaritan to everyone? "Yes, well, I am certain he exaggerated my efforts and downplayed his own," he said. "I simply provided the carriage so that he only carried you through the sewers, not the streets. Valjean was your savior that night, not I." 

"Javert," Valjean began to say, but was cut short by Pontmercy's exclamation. 

"Aha! I thought as much, inspector. I have noticed Father's aversion to truth, or at least the whole truth. He seems to have fallen into a habit of concealing his good deeds and letting others think the worst of him. Do you know, he told me all about his past crimes and nothing of his good deeds when he told me his identity? I admit to you, monsieur, I was a fool. For a time I believed that he had murdered you and stolen M. Madeleine’s wealth! And did Father correct my misapprehensions? No! Instead he allowed me to treat him poorly and to drive him away from Cosette, as though he believed he was a villain rather than an angel and deserved such cruelty. Cosette and I plan to cure him of that. We shall heap praises upon Father's head until he must admit to his virtues rather than only his faults." 

Valjean had flushed with embarrassment as Pontmercy had gone on, sinking a little into the arm-chair. Now he turned a look of mute appeal at Javert as though to implore him to interrupt Pontmercy's earnest speech. 

Javert smirked instead. He waited until Pontmercy paused for breath. Then he said, "In this, we are in agreement, Monsieur Pontmercy." Pontmercy looked satisfied and Valjean slightly betrayed. "He has a penchant for unnecessary martyrdom."

Cosette reentered, carrying two plates laden with food. She pressed one into Valjean’s unresisting hands. Then, to Javert’s surprise, she held the other one out to him and looked expectantly at him until Javert accepted it. “Perhaps I am being a terrible wife, serving you both before my husband, but I thought that the two gentlemen who had needed a doctor's care should eat first,” she said. She turned towards Pontmercy, lowering her eyes and asking in a demure tone that belied the small smile playing upon her lips, “Forgive me?”

“Of course,” Pontmercy said tenderly.

Javert focused on his plate as the two exchanged besotted looks. Either Madame Mercier had forgiven him his many trespasses, or the doctor had told her to push as much food upon him as possible, for there were several roll-shaped brioche, a small thing of jam, and even a few slices of peaches on his plate. 

When he glanced at Valjean's plate, there was also a surplus of food there. Valjean had his head bowed, his lips moving in what Javert assumed was a quiet prayer, and then he opened his eyes and began to spread jam upon one of the brioche. 

Cosette left and returned again with plates for herself and her husband. She chattered all the way through the meal, describing the garden to Valjean and occasionally interrupting herself with an aside to Javert about what the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire was like, since he had seen it so briefly. 

Javert let the words wash over him, nodding when she looked in his direction but mostly focusing on his meal and the coffee. He ate methodically; first the peaches so that their juices would not soften and ruin the brioche, then the brioche after he had applied some jam, then finally another cup of coffee. When he was done, he set the plate and cup upon the round table and waited for the others to finish. 

"I told the fiacre to arrive at ten," Cosette said. "That should give us enough time to pack up Papa's most important things. We can come back and collect the rest later." 

Pontmercy, brushing crumbs off his shirt, nodded in agreement. "What do you want us to take with us, Father?" 

Valjean frowned, his gaze turning inward. A pensive expression passed over his face. "The candlesticks and the valise," he said at last, almost tentatively, and Cosette let out a stifled burst of laughter. 

"That little portmonteau! I have been very jealous of that thing, as thou must remember. Well, now that we are being honest with each other, perhaps thou will finally show me what is inside." 

Valjean, much to Javert's amazement, actually blushed at her request. "No, no," he protested. "It is nothing, just a small thing. Nothing to concern thee." His hands came up and fluttered uncertainly in the air, as though to push aside the argument Cosette was certain to make. 

"Fie!" Cosette said in amused exasperation. She was sitting perched on Valjean's arm-chair, and stomped one small foot upon the floor. "I thought we were done with secrets."

"We are," Valjean said. "It is simply, that is to say...." His words trailed off and Javert watched in fascination as he flushed all the more scarlet, the color turning even his ears a rosy pink. 

At last, Cosette took pity. "Ah, well, perhaps it is not so much a secret as something private. I can understand that, though the curiosity is quite unbearable," she declared, and wrapped a friendly arm around Valjean's neck, pressing her cheek to his. "I forgive thee. Keep thy valise."

Valjean's shoulders relaxed and a more natural color returned to his face. He patted her shoulder. "So the candlesticks and the valise, and a change of clothing if we do not plan to return today for the rest of my things." He hesitated. When naming the valise, he had been tentative; now he was diffident, a strange reticence in his tone and expression as he added, "Oh, I should bring  _Reveries_."

Javert gave a little start of surprise at this curious inclusion.  _Reveries_? While it was true that they hadn't finished the book yet, it would keep for another day; Javert would probably be unable to visit Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 until at least tomorrow. Surely  _Reveries_  could wait. He concealed his bafflement behind a neutral look, but judging by Cosette's sudden interest and the way her eyes fixed upon him, he had not hidden his reaction well. 

" _Reveries_?" Pontmercy asked. 

"Rousseau's  _Reveries of a Solitary Walker_ ," Javert said slowly when Valjean didn't immediately answer. He shrugged when Pontmercy and Cosette both looked at him. "We have been reading it. But surely there is a copy of it in the library at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 if you want to finish it yourself." He found himself frowning as he said the last to Valjean, bothered by the idea. 

"Oh, yes, I suppose there would be a copy," Valjean said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. He smoothed a hand down his beard, his frown half-hidden by the gesture. "Still.... We cannot be certain of that, and I had hoped we could finish it soon. We are very nearly finished."

"And I look forward to hearing more of Rousseau's thoughts on nature and society," Javert said dryly, earning a faint smile. "Though it may have to wait a few days. Between my three days of leave and the problem of Thénardier, I foresee a mountain of paperwork in my future."  

Valjean's smile strengthened. "A few days then." 

"So the candlesticks, the valise, and the book," Cosette interjected. "And Papa's clothes." When Javert glanced in her direction, she wore a curious smile, one that wavered uncertainly before finally firming around the edges. "I think that is manageable." 

Javert moved to the edge of the bed, moving his injured leg cautiously. He stood with care, restraining a wince when he put his weight upon the leg. After a moment the pain ebbed back to a dull, endurable ache. His boots were within reach, and he put them on. Then he looked around for his cane and still didn't see it. "My cane?"

"Oh, here it is, Inspector," Pontmercy said, unearthing it from behind the arm-chair and handing it to him. "But you  _are_ waiting for the carriage, aren't you?" Pontmercy eyed him with a hint of anxiety, as though Javert might to slip out the door and vanish. 

Javert snorted, aware that Valjean and Cosette were watching him as well. "I suspect you all would chase me down if I tried to take my leave, and I can hardly outrun you at the moment." He tapped his cane lightly against his ankle as Cosette stifled a laugh. "But I need to speak to the portress, and now seems as good a time as any while you pack. If you'll excuse me…." 

He took his plate and cup with him, and made his way carefully down the steps, using his cane for support. He should have asked the doctor how long his leg would be like this, he reflected, but surely as long as he took better care, it would only be a few days. 

He found Madame Mercier in the kitchen, washing the dishes. She gave a little start when he entered, and then relief flooded her face. "Monsieur Javert, I am glad to see you up and well!" she said, taking the dishes from him. "You were as pale as a ghost last night. How is your leg?" 

"Much better, thank you," Javert said, a little surprised at the concern in her voice. Surely she had not forgiven him so quickly. He cleared his throat. "Monsieur Fauchelevent mentioned that I have been rude to you these past few days. Looking back, I realize he is right. I turned my frustrations about his poor health and foolish decisions upon you. That was unjust of me, and I apologize." 

Madame Mercier blinked, staring at him with wide, startled eyes for a moment. Then a broad smile spread across her features and she flapped her hands at him, half-laughing. "You look so serious, Inspector! The doctor told me it was your efforts that kept Monsieur Fauchelevent alive. For that I will bear a few scowls and snarls!" 

Javert frowned. This was not how he had expected the conversation to go. This was not, he thought dryly, how he thought this _morning_ would go. Perhaps he should set aside his assumptions for the day. "Still, I should not--"

"Enough, monsieur," Madame Mercier said kindly. "You were upset for your friend; that would try even the good nature of a saint."

He felt his lips twitch at that. "I am no saint, madame." He reached for his pocket-book, belatedly realizing he had left his coat upstairs. "There is the matter of the meals I ate--"

The portress planted her hands on her hips. This time she actually laughed, a clear, ringing sound. "Are you on that again, Inspector? You do not owe me one sou. Monsieur Fauchelevent refused to lower his rent after Madame Pontmercy was married-- he has been paying for three people these past few months. Consider your meals part of that."

"He didn't lower his rent," Javert repeated. When Madame Mercier nodded, he sighed. "Of course he didn't. Still--"

"No, monsieur," she said, cheerfully but firmly. "I will have my way on this. You do not owe me anything. Now, did you need anything else? Some more coffee?" 

"Perhaps another cup," Javert said, giving way, and ignored the victorious glint in the woman's eyes. It was not until he had all but finished the second cup that Madame Mercier's phrasing and his own automatic acceptance of it struck him. 

She had called him Valjean's friend, and he had not told her otherwise. The phrase had not even impressed him as strange or wrong when he'd heard it-- he had made no argument, but instead had been more concerned with Valjean's lack of frugality regarding his rent. 

Javert studied the remaining coffee at the bottom of his cup, his mind turning the portress's words over and examining them from all angles. Was this friendship, then? He wondered a little at how many people longed for friendship, if this exasperating, muddled mess was what it entailed. No, friendship did not seem quite right. He remembered calling himself an old acquaintance of Valjean's when he had first introduced himself to Cosette, and almost laughed. Friend was far closer than acquaintance, but still somehow wrong. 

He searched for another word, but none satisfied him. At last, he gave up on it. What did it matter? The appellation 'friend' would suit well enough; doubtless Valjean would have looked pleased if he'd heard Madame Mercier's words, and all the more satisfied when Javert hadn't corrected her. 

Javert finished the last of his drink and thanked Madame Mercier for the coffee. He went back upstairs, reentering the antechamber just in time to catch Pontmercy's satisfied remark of, "That is settled."

Everyone looked up as Javert closed the door behind him, but since Pontmercy did not elaborate, Javert supposed they had been speaking on something about Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6. He spotted his coat folded neatly upon a dresser. He limped over to it to fetch out his watch. "It is nearly ten already," he remarked, frowning at the time and darting a startled look at Valjean. "You let us sleep rather late."

Valjean looked unrepentant. "You all needed your rest," Valjean said, and then carefully stood. He winced a little, as though still stiff, but the pain passed quickly from his face. "I think I can carry the valise, at least."  

"I will carry that," Pontmercy and Javert said in tandem. After a moment, Pontmercy laughed. "Forgive me, Inspector Javert, but perhaps you should not strain yourself. I am certain I can carry everything to the carriage."

Javert eyed the young man's thin, unimposing form, and felt his lips twitch. "If you are certain," he drawled, donning his coat and his hat. He patted his pockets, frowning. "Pistols seem to disappear in your presence, monsieur." 

"What?" Pontmercy looked puzzled for a moment before comprehension dawned. "Oh, your pistol. We put it in the drawer next to you for safekeeping." 

Javert pocketed the pistol with a muttered thank-you. Then he looked at Valjean. "It seems we are both to be treated like fragile china. Did you want to go downstairs and enjoy the morning air while we wait for the carriage to arrive?"

"Yes," Valjean said. "Just let me change." He disappeared briefly into his old bedchamber. When he reemerged, he gripped a hand-carved cane in his hand and had donned a gentleman's attire. The change did much to improve his appearance, garbed in decent attire rather than his old workman's clothes. Conversely, it also revealed how much weight he had lost over the past few months, the clothing hanging loosely on his form. 

Judging Cosette's frown, she had noticed the change as well. When Javert looked at her, he saw her jaw firm and her expression turn to steel. She gave a slow nod, as though deciding something. He had a sudden vision of her following Valjean and making him eat at every possible occasion, thrusting plate after plate at him. He coughed into a fist, hiding his smirk behind his hand when Cosette glanced in his direction. 

"Shall we?" he asked, motioning towards the door, and Valjean nodded. 

 

* * *

 

Javert squirmed in his seat, feeling the walls of the carriage close in on him. "How is it that you and I find ourselves in these situations?" he asked in an aside, exasperation coloring the quiet words.  
  
Valjean, for his part, only chuckled and whispered, "At least Marius and I have not just emerged from the sewers."    
  
The carriage ride during which Javert and Valjean had taken an injured and unconscious Pontmercy to his house had been awkward enough; this ride, with Cosette and Pontmercy squeezed together on one side of the carriage and Javert and Valjean on the other, threatened to be even more so, for Pontmercy and Cosette were both wide awake and inclined to chatter about any number of inconsequential things.  
  
"I think I would almost prefer that, if it meant your son-in-law was silent," Javert muttered. He wasn't quite jesting, for Pontmercy had chosen that particular moment to begin remarking on the _weather_. He fidgeted again; his uninjured knee knocked against Valjean's, and he forced himself to sit still. At least they were nearly to the hospital.

Valjean's chuckle was a little too loud this time, for Cosette raised her eyebrows and directed a questioning smile at them both. "I didn't think the weather was so humorous."  
  
"It isn't. We were simply...discussing the differences between this carriage ride and the last one we shared," Javert said rather hastily as Valjean nodded.  
  
"I see," Cosette said, though her smile had an edge of puzzlement to it. Then she leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. "I have been thinking," she announced. "Too many people at Monsieur Moreau's bedside will overwhelm the poor man, especially when both Papa and Marius are strangers. Monsieur Javert, I thought you and I could visit him while Marius and Papa waited with the carriage."  
  
She had apparently not confided this line of thought to Pontmercy, for Javert noticed with some amusement that Pontmercy looked less than pleased at the idea. "I think I should come along," Pontmercy began, but Javert, restraining his smirk and smoothing his expression into a serious look, interrupted him.  
  
"That makes sense, madame."

Cosette smiled, and then looked thoughtful. "I still don't know if I should bring a gift or not. What does one bring someone in a hospital?"  
  
Javert shrugged. His experiences with hospitals had never involved visitors, much less gifts. "I don't know." Seeing that Pontmercy still frowned, he couldn't resist needling the man further. "Though I suspect Moreau will be happy enough to have visitors, being a young man away from home. His family lives in Auxerre."  
  
Next to him, Valjean made a quiet sound that could have been a laugh or cough. "I am certain he will be grateful for visitors," Valjean agreed in a too-even tone as Pontmercy's frown deepened to a glower. He reached out and pressed Cosette's hand as he added, "Besides, thy smile is gift enough, my dear."  
  
"I still think--"  
  
"Here we are!" Cosette announced, and Pontmercy subsided into a sulk, crossing his arms against his chest. His wife seemed oblivious to his distemper as she threw open the carriage door and scampered down to the ground before Pontmercy could even move to assist her.

Javert exited the carriage with more care. He wouldn't do anything foolish like tear his stitches today. His leg ached, but stayed steady beneath him when he tested his weight. After a moment, he nodded towards Cosette. "After you, madame."  
  
Dubois, Javert was informed, had already been released. The head injury had only dazed the sergeant. While doubtless he would experience a few headaches over the next days, there should be no lasting effects.   
  
"And Moreau?"   
  
The doctor twisted his lips. "It's still early, but so far there has been no sign of a fever, which is cause for hope," he said. He looked curiously at Cosette, obviously wondering at her presence and rumpled dress. "He is awake, if you'd like to see him, Inspector. Though he has just been given a dose of laudanum, so any conversation will be, ah, difficult."  
  
"We don't plan to stay for very long, monsieur docteur," Cosette assured him. "We will deliver our well-wishes and then let him rest." 

When they entered Moreau's room, Javert frowned at the sight of him. Most of the color was still gone from Moreau's face, his skin looking more like wax than flesh. The young man's face had always been expressive, showcasing any stray thought that crossed his face, but now the laudanum's euphoria had given that expression an almost frenetic energy. "Monsieur!" he said, eyes wide when he spotted Javert in the doorway. He started to sit up, but was firmly pressed back down upon the bed by his nurse. A smile twitched wildly on his lips. "Do you need my report? I don't think I can write, the laudanum makes my hand shake, but words flow off my tongue so well at the moment! I was telling the nurse about how Dubois shot Thénardier, and she was very interested. I think you would be pleased with my verbal report--" 

"Enough, Moreau," Javert said firmly, for though the intense energy hadn't faded from Moreau's face, a certain breathlessness had entered his voice, and the nurse was frowning in concern. He stepped closer to the bed. "The report will keep until you are feeling better. I simply came in to see how you were faring and to tell you that Dubois is fine. The doctors have already let him leave."

"Oh, good," Moreau said in a tone of great relief. Then he seemed to notice Cosette for the first time. He gave a terrific start and immediately winced, his hand going to his side. "Madame Pontmercy! What-- how-- are you here for my apology?"

"Apology?" Cosette turned a puzzled look upon Javert as Javert resisted the urge to sigh. 

"I'd forgotten that Moreau harbored a few...misconceptions about our relationship," he said. He watched as first confusion, then understanding, and finally scarlet embarrassment flooded Cosette's face. He turned to Moreau. "Do not trouble yourself. Madame Pontmercy is a forgiving woman." 

"But I must apologize," Moreau insisted. There was a hint of color struggling back into his face now as he fixed a flustered look upon Cosette. "Forgive me, madame, I should have recognized you as a lady of quality and not one to break her vows. And I must have been mad to think such a thing of Inspector Javert, when everyone knows he is as devoted to the police as Artemis is to the hunt. Did you know that he once captured the Patron Mine--"

"There, you've said your piece, Moreau. And Madame Pontmercy forgives you, does she not?" Javert said hastily before Moreau could continue. He turned a look of appeal upon Cosette. 

"Oh, yes, of course you are forgiven, Monsieur Moreau," Cosette said. There was still a faint blush upon her face, but she was smiling a little now. "You couldn't have known the inspector was trying to protect my family. Please, do not trouble yourself further on that account." 

Moreau relaxed upon his pillow with a relieved sigh. "Thank you, madame," he said. The apology seemed to have leeched the energy from him; his voice slurred a little. "And you, Inspector, I...." But whatever he was about to say was lost in a quiet sigh as his eyes fluttered shut. 

Javert studied Moreau intently as the nurse checked the sergeant's vitals, but relaxed when she nodded to herself, apparently satisfied that he was merely sleeping. He tried to remember how he had acted under the influence of laudanum the night before. He had a vague recollection of waxing rhapsodic about coffee, but everything else was a haze.  "Please tell me that the laudanum did not take me that way," he remarked at last, a little pained that he might have babbled like a fool. 

"I do not know, Inspector," Cosette said, a touch sympathetically. "By the time Marius and I returned to the antechamber, you were sound asleep." She nodded to the nurse as the other woman left, and then hesitated, darting a quick glance towards the bed and Moreau's sleeping form. Then she seemed to transform, the sweet, smiling young woman transfigured into something almost otherworldly, a fierce, unyielding figure. "Monsieur," she said, and he watched in astonishment as she advanced upon him. "I would speak with you."

"Then speak," Javert said cautiously, at a loss as to what had roused her. 

Her expression was set. "I know Papa has not told me all of his past, and in all honesty, I do not expect him to tell me everything. He has spent too many years clinging to his secrets to willingly reveal them all at once. I am equally certain he has not told me everything of you-- he said so little, and nothing about what changed your mind towards him. But I do know this, monsieur." She paused, and fixed him with such a searching look that he found himself resisting the urge to fidget. "You and Papa seem to be--" 

She hesitated. He couldn't read her expression. "Friends," she said at last, though there was a strange twist to her mouth as though she too found it did not quite suit them. "I didn't think my father had any friends, we have always been so solitary, but I am glad for it. Only, I invited you to visit after you and Papa rescued Marius from the barricade, and instead you vanished for a year and I had to track you down. The doctor told me that Papa might have died, if not for your efforts, that Marius and I would have probably come too late." Her eyes filled with tears, and it took her a moment to continue, her voice hoarse. "He might have died, if I had not sought you out, if we had both left him alone. I don't plan on leaving him alone again, so I must know, monsieur. Do you plan on disappearing again?" 

"No," Javert said. She seemed to be expecting more, her tear-filled eyes fixed upon his face. He cleared his throat, for his throat was dry. He found the right words slowly. "When I did not visit your father, it was for personal reasons, ones which I have, ah, made my peace with for the most part." He thought of his pacing back and forth before the Rue de l'Homme Arme and how he had chosen this path with his eyes open. He smoothed out his expression until it was just as set and determined as Cosette's. He inclined his head towards her and said quietly, "I am quite set on remaining in your father's company for as long as he wishes." 

"You seemed prepared to leave last night." 

"Not for good," Javert said, surprised she had thought so. "We were snarling at each other. I meant to give him space." 

"I think my father has had enough space to last a lifetime," Cosette said, a bittersweet mixture of amusement and pain in her voice. 

Javert inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Your father and I are still learning each other's ways. I thought it would be best to leave him alone, but perhaps you are right." 

"Well then," Cosette said. "We are agreed. You are always welcome at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6." She laughed a little tremulously when Javert offered her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes, banishing all trace of her grief with a few quick movements, and then handed the handkerchief back. "Thank you, Monsieur Javert. Shall we go to the washhouse now? Doubtless Marius wants to see Azelma."

 _Doubtless he wants you well away from Moreau, though any idiot could see you have eyes only for your husband_ , Javert thought, some of his earlier amusement returning. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and tipped his hat to her. "Then let us go, madame." 

 

* * *

 

“Why is there such a crowd outside the washhouse?” Cosette asked a short time later, leaning past Pontmercy to gawk at the men lurking by the windows. She and Javert had both been quiet on the ride to the washhouse, leaving Pontmercy to fill up the silence with chatter and Valjean to study them both curiously.  

Javert grimaced. He hadn't considered that the washhouse might not be a place for Cosette to visit, but now he realized his lack of forethought. "They are degenerates. Washing clothes and ironing is a difficult task, and the heat is terrible. The women often must shed layers to keep from getting too warm. These men have nothing better to do than stare."

"Oh," Cosette said, frowning. Her eyes narrowed. "How crude. The women have no privacy?" 

Javert shook his head. "It is either endure the stares or keep on all their clothes and faint from the heat," he explained. "And the windows must be kept open to let in fresh air." 

"And Azelma works here?" Pontmercy said, looking unsettled. "It doesn't seem appropriate--"

"It is a legitimate job," Javert said coolly. Perhaps some looked down on washerwomen and considered them little better than prostitutes, but Javert remembered his mother resorting to such work when it was either earn three francs a day or go to debtors' prison. "The girl is doing her best to stay on the right side of the law. What other job would you have her do?" 

"I don't know," Pontmercy said slowly, but he still looked troubled. 

"Perhaps you should stay in the carriage with your father," Javert said to Cosette. "I expect our visit to be brief."  

"Very well," Cosette said. She settled back against her seat and nodded, seemingly to herself. "Papa and I can talk."

"Talk," Javert echoed. He had a sudden image of Cosette turning her fierce look upon Valjean and the other man wincing and holding up his hands in surrender. He didn't look at Valjean though he knew that Valjean watched him, that curious gaze almost palpable. He drew himself upright, pushed open the door of the carriage, and left Valjean to his fate.  

Bissette's relief was obvious when he realized that Javert was merely here to ensure that Azelma kept her position. "Of course, monsieur! She shall have her place here for as long as she likes!" Bissett assured him, dabbing at the sweat darkening his hairline and making Javert wonder once more what Bissett was hiding. 

He had just emerged from the man's office when he heard the loud roar of sound. It took him a moment to recognize it as laughter, harsh with disbelief. He headed towards the sound, not surprised to find Azelma laughing in Pontmercy's startled face. 

"Fifteen hundred francs," she said, and laughed again, the sound catching in her throat. Her gaze fell upon Javert and turned terrible with fury and contempt. She marched over to him and thrust a pair of bank-notes in his face. Her voice was shrill when she shouted, "Take the money, Javert! I won't fall for that mean trick. My father did the blackmailing, not me! You can't arrest me!" 

Javert stared at the bank-notes in front of his nose. So that was what a thousand-franc note looked like. "I assure you that it is no trick," he told her, making no move to take the money. His tone was dry. "Your father saved Monsieur Pontmercy's father's life at Waterloo, and Pontmercy feels that the blessings of the father should fall upon the child. The fifteen hundred francs are yours. No tricks. No traps." 

The bank-notes trembled in her hand. Doubt crept into her expression. "Truly? But Waterloo was so long ago, why does he care about what my father did--"

"Mademoiselle Thénardier. Azelma." Pontmercy's voice was quiet but firm. 

The girl's face had gone soft and almost young with bewilderment. She nearly looked her age. Her entire body trembled. She stared at the bank-notes as though she believed they would disappear if she blinked. 

"Waterloo might have been a long time ago, but Eponine saved my life at the barricade last year." Pontmercy's voice held a certain gravity that surprised Javert. Studying him, Javert saw suddenly how Pontmercy would look when he was old, the lines that years and loss would wear onto his face. Pontmercy didn't move any closer to Azelma, but he kept speaking in that low, beseeching tone. "Even if you don't believe that I owed your father anything, believe that I owe Eponine my life. She took a bullet meant for me. And I failed to protect Gavroche as well. Keep the fifteen hundred francs for them." 

Azelma had wept without tears for her father, but now tears welled up in those dark eyes. She put the bank-notes in her pocket in a quick, sudden movement and then she buried her face in her hands and wept. It took Javert a moment to realize that she was whispering the names of her brother and sister between sobs. 

Pontmercy hesitated and made a small movement towards Azelma, as though to console her. He stopped at Javert's head-shake. They stood quietly, Azelma's sobs and the sounds of the washhouse washing over them. Gradually her sobbing eased to hitching breaths and the occasional pained sound. 

"I have spoken to Bissette. You may keep your job here if you wish it," Javert told her then, keeping his voice even. "Or you may use Pontmercy's money and do something else with your life. It is your choice." 

Azelma's eyes were swollen from crying and her face was blotchy. She wiped at her face with her sleeve. "I have to think on it," she said, very low, not meeting either of their gazes, and then bobbed her head at Pontmercy. She muttered a quick, hoarse, "I should go, monsieur. I must-- there’s the laundry to deliver. I should go." 

"Mademoiselle Thénardier," Pontmercy said, but she was already backing away, patting her pocket to reassure herself that the money was still there. Pontmercy watched her leave. He still looked old, something pained and troubled in his eyes. "I feel as though I should do more for her...."

Javert shrugged. "You have given her the chance for a new life. It is up to her for make her next choice." He made a show of checking his watch, flourishing it so that Pontmercy would look towards him and away from where Azelma had gone. "We need to go if I am not to be late for my shift."

Some of the shadows left Pontmercy's face as he blinked and peered at the time. Javert didn't bother to inform him that the time was off. "Oh, yes. We wouldn't want that, inspector." 

Cosette made a soft sound of dismay when they reentered the carriage. She flung her arms around Pontmercy's neck and peered anxiously into his face. "Was she not there?" she asked. "Did she refuse the money?"

"She took the money," Pontmercy said. He pressed his face against Cosette's hair. Slowly the tension began to ease from him. "I had to speak of her sister, who died because of me." 

“Oh, darling,” Cosette murmured sympathetically, and tightened her grip upon his neck. She began to whisper to him, her voice soft, apparently forgetting about Javert and Valjean entirely.

Javert sat down next to Valjean, who watched Cosette and Pontmercy, worry writ upon his face. "He will be fine," Javert muttered. When Valjean glanced in his direction, his brow furrowed, Javert added, "He is troubled by old memories. They will pass, given time." 

When Valjean still looked troubled, Javert nudged his ankle with his cane. "He'll be fine," he said firmly, then decided a distraction was in order. "Did you enjoy your talk with your daughter? I certainly enjoyed mine," he said, straight-faced, and watched Valjean look almost apologetic. "Although she was quite fierce about it, I am led to understand that I am welcome at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 whenever I please."

"So she mentioned," Valjean said. A small smile banished most of the worry from his features. "I am glad for it." 

"She also thought that I meant to leave and not return when I tried to go last night," Javert continued. He watched for Valjean's reaction and caught the minute tightening of Valjean's mouth and the slightly rueful look that passed over his features. Javert made an exasperated sound. “We have known each other for nearly two decades, and yet we still don’t see each other clearly.”

“No,” Valjean said slowly, “but I think we begin to.” This was said so softly that for a moment Javert thought he had misheard or perhaps imagined it, and in such a warm tone that Javert felt an answering heat creep into his face.  
  
Javert didn't quite dare to look at Valjean's expression then. Instead he peered out the carriage's window, looking for familiar landmarks. "We should be at the station-house in a few minutes," he announced. He ignored the way his voice was a bit louder than necessary. "You'll want to keep well out of sight. Let's not tempt fate." He spotted movement from the corner of his eye, as though Valjean had nodded, but the other man said nothing, and Pontmercy and Cosette were still deep in whispered conversation. Javert was both grateful for and uncomfortable with the quiet, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He stared out the window instead.

It wasn't until the carriage actually stopped in front of the station-house that Cosette and Pontmercy seemed to remember that Javert and Valjean existed. Pontmercy raised his head, the haunted look banished from his eyes, and blinked in surprise. “Are we here? Well then, Father, you should stay in the carriage. I’ll escort the inspector to the station-house.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. "That is hardly--" he began to object, and then saw the matching obstinate gleams in both Cosette and Pontmercy's eyes. "Very well," he muttered, and ignored the quiet sound from Valjean that doubtless was laughter.

“I wanted to thank you again, monsieur, for what you did for Father and Cosette,” Pontmercy said as they walked up the steps of the station-house. Javert silently groaned. Was Pontmercy going to insist on a speech as well? “I'm sorry that Thénardier is dead, of course, but--”  
  
"Inspector Javert!" A man rushed out of the station-house, nearly running into Pontmercy.

It took a moment for Javert to recognize Laurent, for the agent looked nearly as terrible as Moreau had in the hospital and utterly transformed from the night before. Laurent's face was swollen from a lack of sleep, his eyelids bruised purple. There was a look upon his face that better suited a criminal than an agent of the law; it was the panicked look of a condemned man who sees the guillotine gleaming bright and deadly before him. "Inspector Javert!" he said, catching his breath and making a sound of desperate relief. He thrust something at Javert, narrowly missing his nose. Laurent began to babble. "I, that is, last night, I found this and in all the confusion, in the rush to get Moreau and Dubois to the hospital, you see, I forgot to give it to you."  
  
Javert studied the thousand-franc note that trembled violently in Laurent's grip. After a moment, he tugged it from Laurent's grasp, grimacing at the stickiness. "I believe this belongs to you, Monsieur Pontmercy," he said, offering him the bank-note. Then he turned back to Laurent, watching how the agent trembled under his gaze. He narrowed his eyes. "How... _fortunate_...that you realized your mistake, Laurent."  
  
"Yes, my mistake," Laurent said. He licked his lips.

"Thank you, monsieur," Pontmercy said. He darted a glance at Javert, who realized in relief that Pontmercy could not continue his speech with Laurent present.  
  
Javert felt a surge of good-will towards the agent. Besides, who was to say that Laurent hadn't simply forgotten about the bank-note? It was doubtful, to be sure, but Dubois had been unconscious and Moreau had been bleeding badly. That was enough to unnerve most men. And Javert had only the evidence of the thousand francs, which were now in Pontmercy's possession. "Well then, Laurent, I know you made a verbal report to the Prefect. Did you need any assistance with your written report?" he asked, almost cheerfully, and watched a half-relieved, half-bewildered look flicker across Laurent's face. Javert nodded to Pontmercy in dismissal. "Good day to you, monsieur."  
  
"Monsieur, wait," Pontmercy said rather hastily as Javert began to walk past Laurent towards the doorway. When Javert turned, Pontmercy pressed something into his free hand. "For the pistols I owe you, and to pay for the next few carriage rides when you visit," he said hurriedly, and then backed away and fled back to the cab before Javert could react.  
  
Javert looked down at his hand and slowly uncurled his fingers. Five napoleons gleamed in the sunlight. "Why do people insist on throwing money at me today?" he muttered through his teeth.  
  
"Inspector?" Laurent asked faintly.  
  
Javert sighed and tucked the napoleons into a pocket of his coat. He did not turn to watch the carriage go. "Never mind," he said. "Now, about that report, Laurent...."

 

* * *

 

Two days later, just after breakfast, Javert stood before the carriage gate of Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6. He studied the knocker, sneering a little at the elaborate, frivolous design. After a moment, he knocked.  
  
It took a while for someone to appear, and the man was breathless and red-faced as he opened the gate and bowed. "How may I help you, monsieur?"  
  
"I am here to see Monsieur Fauchelevent," Javert said, and the man gave a small start of recognition, his eyes widening.  
  
"Oh! You'll be the inspector. Forgive me, M. Fauchelevent mentioned you would visit, but he didn't say when...." The man bowed again. "Please, come in. Monsieur le Baron said to take you to M. Fauchelevent whenever you arrived. I believe that M. Fauchelevent is in the garden now, examining the strawberry patch with Madame la Baronne."  
  
Madame la Baronne? Javert assumed the man referred to Cosette, but he didn't remember hearing that Pontmercy had a title, and the young man had certainly not acted like a baron. He puzzled over this for a moment before he dismissed it. All would be explained eventually. "Very well," he said.

Valjean was seated on a bench, his face lifted up towards the sun. His eyes were closed, and there was a peaceful smile on his face. The past few days had been good to him; he looked much better than he had that first day Javert had stormed into the antechamber.  
  
Cosette sat next to her father, resting her head upon his shoulder as she plucked a strawberry from the small basket in her lap and nibbled at the fruit. She spotted Javert first, and exclaimed in delight. "Monsieur Javert! We were wondering when you would visit."  
  
He tipped his hat to her, though his eyes were on Valjean, who had turned at Cosette's words. Valjean's smile widened, turning pleased rather than peaceful, and he raised his hand in greeting. "As I'd suspected, I had quite a bit of paperwork to catch up on," Javert said. "I have an afternoon shift, but I thought I would visit for a few hours if it would not be inconvenient--"  
  
"You are not an inconvenience, monsieur," Cosette said firmly, and then rose to her feet, setting the basket of strawberries on the bench. "Basque, I needed to speak to you. Let us speak in the house."  
  
"Yes, Madame la Baronne," said Basque, and the warmth in his voice both surprised and satisfied Javert. It was good that the servants accepted and admired Cosette.

Once Cosette and Basque had gone, there was silence for a moment. Then Valjean fiddled with the basket and asked, "Have you eaten? The strawberries are ripe and very good."  
  
"I did eat, but I must admit to some curiosity regarding those strawberries. According to your daughter, they are as good as medicine," Javert said dryly as Valjean smiled. He sat down on the bench, the basket a small barrier that separated him from Valjean. He stretched out his injured leg, the gesture careful.   
  
Valjean's eyes followed the movement. "How is your leg?"  
  
"Better. I told you it was a small injury," Javert said. "I simply needed to rest the leg." He chose one of the smaller strawberries, turning it over with his fingers for a moment and admiring its color before he finally lifted it to his mouth and took a careful bite. Despite his best effort, juice dripped down his fingers. He ate the rest of the fruit hastily. "Damn," he said, once he had let the stem drop to the grass beside the bench. He looked at his stained fingers. "I have never learned how to eat these things neatly."   
  
"If there is a trick to it, I have not learned it," Valjean said with a chuckle. It was a warm, rich sound, Valjean's amusement, and pleasant to the ear. The sound was as different from the lugubrious laughter he had uttered at Toulon as day from night. 

Since Valjean wasn't going to call him on his manners and there was no one else to see, Javert licked the juice from his fingers. "So you get a patch of garden. Is that it then?" he asked, looking at a large section of garden with freshly tilled soil and no sign of anything planted. "What do you plan to grow?"  
  
"Strawberries, next year. It is too late to plant them now, but apparently Cosette and I are to have a competition next spring. This summer, I thought I would plant roses," Valjean said, though he sounded a little distracted, as though already imagining the next year's competition.   
  
"Ah, yes, roses," Javert said, remembering that Valjean had mentioned that before. He made a face. "That seems like a waste of effort. What is the practical use of roses?"   
  
"Well, some use them for perfume, but I thought just to enjoy their beauty," Valjean said a trifle dryly.   
  
Javert snorted. “Beauty,” he said with some disgust. There was a certain charm to roses, he admitted, but it was a useless sort. Javert preferred the beauty of a well-planned arrest, something that proved to be of use, over ornamental frivolities that faded quickly.  He was answered by more of Valjean’s amused laughter. “Do you not plan to grow anything edible this summer?”

Valjean shrugged. “Now is the season to plant a few vegetables,” he said, looking thoughtfully at the patch of garden. "Carrots, green beans, perhaps some sugar peas and beets...." 

Javert studied the spot as well, but, knowing little of gardening, could only picture Valjean kneeling in the dirt, his hands caked with the rich black soil, that wide-brimmed hat he had worn so often as Monsieur Madeleine shielding his contented face from the sun. He found himself smiling faintly at the image. He cleared his throat. "Then why not grow both vegetables and roses?"

"I would need more room in the garden for a vegetable patch. Cosette has given me this spot, I don't wish to go to her and ask if I may have some more--" Valjean stopped when Javert snorted again.

"As though she would not give you the entirety of the garden if you wished!" 

Valjean's smile twisted and turned rueful. He made a quiet sound in the back of his throat that might have been another laugh or a sigh. "You are right. Still."  

"Still, you do not want to impose," Javert said, and was a trifle irritated when the statement came out almost indulgent rather than chiding. To distract himself, he took another strawberry, this one bigger than the first. As before, despite his care, the fruit burst apart against his teeth and the juice stained his hand. He was in the middle of licking his fingers, relishing the sharp sweetness of the fruit, when he realized Valjean hadn't answered him. He looked up, mentally composing another pointed remark about Cosette being happy to give her father a second patch of garden. The words stilled on his tongue, remained unsaid, for he caught the passing remnants of a strange look on Valjean's face.

The expression was gone before Javert could fully discern it; he had only brief impressions of fondness and warmth and something undefined. Then again, he thought, perhaps he had only imagined the look, for Valjean now studied the basket, his hand hovering over the strawberries, a contemplative cast to his features. There wasn't even a hint of the emotions Javert had thought he'd seen upon Valjean's features. 

But why should Javert look for such things upon Valjean's face if they weren't there, except that he wanted to see such sentiments and know that Valjean was happy? He turned away from Valjean before his expression could betray him and made a pretense of studying the azaleas, which were in full bloom in vivid shades of pink and copper. Once he had fixed his gaze blindly upon the flowers, he began to examine his memories as one would particularly damning pieces of evidence. 

 _You and Father seem to be...friends_ , he remembered Cosette saying. A second memory followed swiftly on the heels of the first, Madame Mercier remarking,  _You were upset for your friend; that would try even the good nature of a saint_. 

When he had chosen this path, he had knowingly chosen Valjean as well. Still, he hadn't thought his choice would include either this strange friendship or his own growing desire to watch and ward Valjean, to incite his smiles and guard his laughter. It was not, he found after a moment, as disquieting a thought as it might have even a few days earlier. 

He turned back to Valjean in time to watch the other man drop a discarded strawberry stem to the ground. He must have eaten two or three fruit while Javert had been lost to introspection; Valjean's lips were stained pink, more the color of wine than strawberries. Even as Javert watched, Valjean licked at his lips and failed to banish the shine the strawberries had left behind. 

Javert cleared his throat; Valjean's gaze flickered towards him. "I have mostly afternoon shifts for the next few weeks. Will it be any trouble if I visit in the morning?"

"No," Valjean said with a pleased smile. "No trouble, as long as you do not mind if I work in the garden while you visit. The afternoons are often too warm for work."

"Just so long as you don't expect me to help," Javert said. He was rewarded by a chuckle. 

"I seem to recall you saying something once about being able to till the soil," Valjean said, a faint smile playing upon his lips. "Do you take those words back?"

It took a moment to remember when he had said such a thing, and then Javert felt his lips twist into a rueful look. It wasn't an unkindness on Valjean's part, he knew, but he did wish Valjean would cease in his habit of turning Javert's own words against him. Especially ones from a speech he had made years ago and done his best to forget. "You remember my request for dismissal well," he remarked dryly.  

Valjean did not immediately respond, fiddling with the basket handle. "It was memorable," he said at last, his voice almost grave. Then, more lightly, he added, "But you did not answer my question."

"I have never worked a field or garden, so I am unsure of my skill there," Javert admitted. "But I will answer your question with another. Can you truly picture me helping you with your rose garden?" 

Valjean's lips twitched wildly. "No." He chuckled again, doubtlessly amused by some image the question had conjured. "I admit I cannot."

"There, we are agreed. You shall work the soil and I shall...read Rousseau's thoughts on nature to you, I suppose," Javert said, faltering a little as he wondered what they would speak on once they were done with  _Reveries_.

"And you can tell me how your latest shift went," Valjean suggested. "I am certain Parisian police-work is much more exciting than that of Montreuil-sur-Mer." He chuckled again. He had a plethora of laughter today, it seemed. "And doubtless involves far less complaints about gutters."

"This is Paris," Javert reminded him. "There are many  _more_  complaints about gutters. It is simply no longer my concern unless the complaint involves a fight or murder." 

"Well then, tell me of that. A story of a disagreement over gutters that led to a fight," Valjean said, looking both amused and intrigued, and so Javert did, telling him the story of Monsieur Michel and Madame Fournier, who had come to blows over the former's gutter spilling water upon the latter's best dress which had been hung out to dry in her yard. 

Valjean's loud laughter as Javert described how Madame Fournier had torn off Monsieur Michel's toupee drew both Cosette and Pontmercy into the garden, and then Javert was forced to retell the entire story. 

"And you said you were not a storyteller, Inspector!" Cosette said once he had finished. Laughing, she nudged the basket towards her father; wordlessly Valjean took another strawberry. "I thought you did very well." 

She had her father well-trained, Javert thought, and had to hide a smile behind his fist. "You are just an overly generous audience," he said. When Cosette looked ready to disagree, he cast about for a distraction. After a second, he found one, and resisted the urge to smirk in victory. He said, assuming an innocent tone that made Valjean's eyes narrow, "Your father was just telling me this is the season to plant vegetables. Do you grow any here?"

Cosette frowned in thought as Valjean's lips thinned into a half-irritated look. "We have the strawberries, of course, but I think everything else are flowers and fruit trees. No, I don't believe we have a vegetable garden," she said. Then she brightened. "Does thou want a vegetable garden, Papa?"

Valjean didn't glare at Javert in mute betrayal, but Javert was quite certain he wished to as Valjean smiled at Cosette and said slowly, "It  _is_  the right time of year for carrots and sugar peas--"

"Then we shall find a place for them!" Pontmercy said. He peered around the garden with the confidence of a man who wouldn't know a carrot from a beet. "I am certain there is a good spot somewhere in the garden for your vegetables."

"There now," Javert said too pleasantly, enjoying the way exasperation and gratification battled for control of Valjean's features, "it seems you will grow something useful this summer after all." 

"Be quiet," Valjean said, though amusement won out over all other emotions as he shook his head and smiled. "You two must be more careful," he said to Cosette and Pontmercy, who wore matching looks of confusion. "Javert will use you both to win our arguments." 

"Argument?" Pontmercy asked.

"He thought asking for another patch of garden for vegetables would be an imposition," Javert said. "I, meanwhile, am happy to abuse your good will and ask on his behalf."

"You did not ask. You tricked them into suggesting it," Valjean argued.  

"And if they had not suggested it, I would have been more blunt," Javert said. When Valjean started to speak again, Javert raised a hand to quiet him. "Give over.  Your daughter and son-in-law shall force happiness upon you whether you will it or not, and I will be their accomplice." 

"Well said, monsieur," Cosette said, taking Valjean's hand in hers and smiling warmly. 

"Indeed," Pontmercy said before he turned a firm gaze upon Valjean, who was staring at them as though they'd all gone mad. "As I said before, you are Cosette's father and mine now. Everything we have is yours. Do you want another patch of garden? You may have the whole thing if you wish."

"Enough," Valjean said with a flush upon his cheeks. He raised his free hand in surrender. "Very well, you are all arrayed against me, I cannot win, I submit to your care. Now let us talk of something else, or have someone fetch  _Reveries_  from my room." 

"I shall fetch it," Pontmercy said, and went away at once, returning with the book in hand. 

Cosette pressed her father's hand with a smile, and then turned to Javert. "I think we will not make you begin the book again," she remarked with a merry laugh, "and I do not wish to start a book so close to the end, so we shall leave you two to your reading. Good morning, inspector; good morning, Papa." 

The small ribbon that had marked their stopping point was still there. "Good morning, madame; monsieur," he answered as he opened the book to the correct page. The bright sunlight warmed the paper and brought out the words in sharp clarity. Javert studied the text for a moment, and felt his lips curl into a smile.

"Javert? Have you lost your place?" Valjean asked. When Javert glanced at him, he looked curious, another strawberry paused halfway to his lips, his gaze resting upon Javert's face.   

"Not at all," Javert said a little dryly. "I was simply admiring Rousseau's way with words." He cleared his throat and read aloud, striving to match the same tone he had used in the past. 

" _This action of the senses on my heart causes all the torment of my life. In places where nobody is seen, I never think of my destiny. I feel it no more. I no longer suffer. I am happy and contented, without diversion or obstacle...."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I killed off Thénardier.


	5. The Use Made of M. Pontmercy's Five Napoleons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your patience in waiting for this chapter! (Note to self: do not attempt to write the longest fic you have ever written while finishing grad school and starting a rewarding but exhausting job in your actual field.) 
> 
> I am about three scenes away from finishing my heart lies buried, and rather than dump a 45-50,000 word chapter on you, I've divided the final chapter into two chapters instead. The final chapter should be up in the next few weeks. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Thanks go out, as always, to ailelie for being the best beta a person could ask for, and to the folks in chat who offered helpful suggestions for the book selection scene. I cannot remember which person suggested which book, but you were all helpful and awesome!

"Inspector?" Laurent said from the doorway.

Javert repressed an irritated grimace. "What is it, Laurent?" He kept his tone cool, but as usual, the other man seemed oblivious to Javert's unwelcoming air and stepped further into the room.

Laurent had taken Javert not reporting the thousand-franc note incident to Gisquet as a sign of faith in him, and had apparently decided to show his gratitude by trailing after Javert like a particularly over-enthusiastic puppy. It seemed as though every time Javert raised his gaze from his paperwork, Laurent was there, asking after his leg, seeing if he needed anything, and in general being overly solicitous regarding Javert's person. It was exasperating, and made Javert almost miss Moreau, who was recovering but would not be back on duty for at least a month, possibly two, according to his doctors. At least Moreau had known when to go away and leave Javert in peace.

"Well?" he prompted when Laurent didn't speak.

Laurent's expression cleared. "Oh, yes. Dubois and I were about to go on patrol. I thought if your injury permitted it, you might join us? I know you are still on desk duty, but you seem to be walking easier today and--"

"And if I stare at one more piece of paper, I shall probably throw my desk out the window," Javert said before Laurent could keep prattling. "To answer your question, I am still on desk duty, but I hardly see the harm if I walk as far as--" He paused, considering how his leg had felt earlier and how the doctor had promised to remove the stitches in another few days if he did not aggravate the injury. "The market." That was only two streets away.

Laurent nodded. "Very good, monsieur! Just let us know when you are ready."

Javert rose to his feet, and put on his coat and hat. Picking up his cane, he said laconically, "Ready."

It was the hottest time of the day, the sun shining bright and fierce upon them as they stepped out of the police-station and onto the street. Javert thought of Valjean. Doubtless he had retreated from the garden for the time being; even if he hadn't wished to pause in his labors, surely Cosette would have forced him inside.

"Monsieur?" Dubois asked, sounding puzzled.

He'd been smiling slightly, he realized, amused by the image of Cosette dragging Valjean into the house and scolding him. Javert flattened his expression into a neutral look, fiddling with his hat so that it better shielded his features from the sun. "I am surprised you were not forced onto desk duty as well, Dubois," he said.

Something like comprehension flared in the young man's eyes. "My head aches from time to time, Inspector, but the pain isn't bad enough to keep me from patrols," Dubois said. A brief smile twitched at his lips as he gingerly touched the spot just under the brim of his hat where a greenish-black bruise had formed. "Thank the Lord. I don't think I could bear being trapped in the station all shift."

Laurent nodded. He took off his hat, wiped his hand across his damp forehead, and half-glared at the sky even as he said, "I would endure this heat over paperwork any day."

"I'm not surprised," Dubois said, smirking. "Though I wasn't aware you could read."

Laurent narrowed his eyes in mock anger, his hand twitching at his side as though he longed to make a rude gesture. "Says the man who cannot spell correctly half the words we use in our daily reports," he retorted. "What was it that you misspelled yesterday? Oh yes, I think it was sergeant--"

Javert did not doubt that if he were not present, the two young men would have scuffled briefly like schoolboys. Apparently the sun and heat had gone to their brains. He resisted the urge to sigh. It was a relief when they reached the market and Laurent and Dubois, with polite nods to Javert, disappeared into the crowd.

Javert stood there for a moment, enjoying his solitude. He was surrounded by people of course, the market crowded and loud, but at least no one was attempting to talk to him. He started to turn back in the direction of the station-house and paused in mid-turn, his attention drawn to one of the stalls. The woman was selling seeds and plants. He found himself moving closer, examining her supply. She had containers labeled with each type of seed-- carrot, sugar peas, and still others. He tried to remember which ones Valjean had named.

"Looking to add to your garden, monsieur?" the woman asked cheerfully, noticing him. She faltered a little at his expression. "Or perhaps not…."

"No, I have no interest in it," he said. Then he hesitated. His hand touched his pocket where he'd left the remains of Pontmercy's five napoleons. He had taken out the cost of the pistols, for that was fair, but the rest of the money had gone back into his pocket, ignored as charity, and promptly forgotten each time he visited Valjean. It was twice now that Javert had taken off his coat in the privacy of his own apartment and cursed when he'd realized that he'd forgotten to return the money to Pontmercy.

Well, Javert had said he would aid Pontmercy and Cosette in bringing Valjean happiness; he might as well spend some of Pontmercy's money on something for Valjean.

"However, my friend is thinking of starting a vegetable garden," he told the woman, and watched a broad smile spread across her face. 

"Oh, I see, monsieur," she said, nodding. "And you thought to buy something for her? I am certain she will appreciate the gesture." She winked, apparently assuming 'his friend' was a polite euphemism.

"Perhaps," Javert said dryly, and did not correct her. "I believe there was some mention of carrots and beets?"

The woman nodded. "It's a bit late in the season, but if your friend can get them planted in the next few days, she should have a wonderful garden in just a month or two!" She bustled around, placing seeds into small bags. "Carrots, beets, anything else?"

"Peas, I believe, and green beans?" he offered doubtfully after a moment, but she nodded.

"Now, is this a large garden, monsieur?"

Javert thought of Cosette and Pontmercy's enthusiasm for the garden, and repressed a smirk. "I suspect so," he said. He blinked at the pile of bags piling up before him, rather more than he had expected, but didn't object. It was Pontmercy's money, after all. When the woman had finished gathering the seeds, he paid her and was satisfied to watch some of Pontmercy's attempt at charity vanish into the woman's apron pocket.

"I hope your friend enjoys her garden, monsieur," she said brightly, and he inclined his head in agreement.

The seeds made his pockets bulge oddly, no matter how he patted at them. After a moment he gave up. He could find some other way to carry them to Valjean's tomorrow.

He tipped his hat to the woman and returned to the station-house, his hand occasionally touching his pockets to reassure himself none of the packages had fallen to the street.

 

* * *

 

"Inspector Javert," Basque said with a polite bow the next morning. "Monsieur Fauchelevent is already in the garden. Shall I take you there?" 

"I think I can find my way," Javert said.

Valjean was alone in the garden. Somehow he'd unearthed a wide-brimmed hat similar to the one he'd worn as Madeleine; still, it did not quite conceal his features from view. As Javert approached he could see a look of fierce concentration on Valjean's face, the way he bit his lower lip as he carefully filled in the hole around a rose bush he had just planted.

Javert glanced around, reassuring himself that they were alone. "Valjean. Wherever did you get that ridiculous hat?" he remarked when Valjean paused to wipe at his face.

Valjean gave a terrific start. If he had been standing rather than kneeling, he doubtless would have stumbled. He turned, his expression already beginning the shift from surprise to welcome even before his gaze fell upon Javert. "Good morning to you too, Javert," he said, a trifle dryly. He touched the brim of his hat and his lips twitched. "And I happen to like this hat."

"Of course you do," Javert said with a sigh. He crossed his arms against his chest, and noticed that Valjean had managed to smear black dirt across his face. After a moment, he fished out his handkerchief and offered it to Valjean.

Valjean frowned, and then looked down at his dirt-encrusted hands and chuckled. "I will only get more dirt on me in another half-hour, I'm sure," he said, waving away the handkerchief with a good-natured smile. Then his gaze moved to rest curiously on Javert's coat.

Javert followed Valjean's gaze, and realized that one of the bags of seed was peeking out of his pocket. "Oh. Yes," he said. He did not fidget, though yesterday buying Valjean seeds for his vegetable garden had seemed more like a sensible gesture and less like something Valjean would annoyingly call thoughtful. Javert returned the handkerchief to its pocket, and then pulled out the first bag of seeds.

"If you even look like you are thinking the word kind, I am throwing these away," he stated in a matter-of-fact tone as Valjean's expression clouded with confusion. "I was in the market yesterday, and thought perhaps you had not had a chance to buy the seeds for your vegetable garden. I still had money left over from when Pontmercy repaid me for the pistols, so...here." He leaned down and pressed the bag into Valjean's unresisting hand. A moment later, Javert had dropped the other three bags in front of Valjean as well as Valjean blinked at them. "Beets, carrots, sugar peas, and green beans."

"Ah," Valjean said, and nothing more.

When Valjean simply continued to look at the bags, studying them as though he'd never seen seeds before, Javert cleared his throat. It was still mid-morning, but the garden seemed overly warm as he fidgeted in place. "But perhaps you already bought your supplies," he said. "If so, I've wasted Pontmercy's money--"

"What?" Valjean said, and then blinked. "No, no, I have only just chosen the spot for the vegetable patch, I have not bought-- no. I was only surprised."

"Surprised," Javert repeated neutrally. He searched Valjean's face, but couldn't read his look. "Well, so long as you aren't thinking me kind...."

"No," Valjean said. "You were at the market. Why not save me the effort and buy the seeds for me? Your actions were only sensible." It was on the last word that his mouth twitched a little and betrayed him. The corners of his eyes crinkled with badly hidden mirth.

Javert snorted. "You used to be a better liar than that, Valjean. You are thinking me a Good Samaritan again." He made to take the bags back as he'd threatened, but Valjean swiftly moved them out of Javert's reach.

"I was not lying. It was sensible. Thank you for the gift, Javert." Valjean sounded frustratingly cheerful as Javert pursed his lips.

"The seeds are not a gift," he argued. "And even if they are, you should thank your son-in-law. As I said before, it was his money."

Valjean raised an eyebrow and said, "Really? I thought it was  _your_  money. Marius mentioned he had given you payment for the pistols and a few carriage rides since the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire is so far from the station-house and your apartment."

"He gave me too much," Javert said. He remembered Pontmercy's hurried explanation as the young man had pressed the five napoleons upon him. Would Pontmercy actually refuse the money if Javert tried to give it back? He frowned, irritated at the thought. "It reeks of charity," he said at last.

Valjean opened his mouth, presumably to protest. Something in Javert's expression must have told him arguing would be a waste of breath, however, for after a moment he shook his head and sighed. "That was not his intention, but if you wish, I will give him the money."

"Good," Javert said. His shoulders, which he hadn't realized were tense, relaxed. He fished in his pocket for the remains of Pontmercy's napoleons and dumped the money into Valjean's cupped hands.

Black dirt immediately coated the coins, but Valjean seemed not to notice, absently tucking the money away in a pocket. Valjean adjusted his hat and peered up at Javert. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get started on the vegetable garden."

"Now?" Javert said, startled. "I thought you only just chose the spot."

Valjean smiled at his surprise. "It is already late in the season to be planting seeds. I shouldn't waste another day." He gathered up the bags of seeds and rose to his feet, brushing ineffectually at his earth-stained trousers and only succeeding in moving the dirt from his hands to his clothes. He made a face but gave up his attempts. "Come, I will show you the spot. I had planned to till it tomorrow, but I can do that now."

"Very well," Javert said. He followed Valjean through the garden, to a spot where the sunlight fell upon a large patch of untouched earth. Javert knew nothing of gardening to know if it was a good spot for a vegetable garden, but Valjean seemed satisfied by it as he pointed it out.

"Let me just fetch my tools," Valjean said. He set the bags of seeds down on the nearest bench and waited for Javert's nod before he headed back down the path.

Javert watched him go. There was surety in the other man's step that spoke of his returning strength, a careless swing of his hands at his sides that hinted at good humor. Obviously living with Cosette and her husband agreed with Valjean better than his living alone at Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7.

When Valjean returned, he bore several unfamiliar tools which Javert glanced at without any real interest. Thankfully, Valjean did not seem inclined to give him a gardening lesson. Instead he set a few of the tools aside, seized the one, and began to use it to turn over the dirt in the patch. As he bent to his work, Valjean asked over his shoulder, "Tell me about your shift?"

"I can if you like, but I think you would find it quite dull. Aside from my brief venture to the marketplace, I dealt with paperwork the entire time," Javert said. He sat down on the bench, careful not to crush the bags of seeds. He stretched out his legs and let himself relax in the cool shade. After a second or two, he set his hat to the side and pulled off his gloves, tucking the latter into his pocket. 

Valjean shrugged. He darted a brief glance at Javert. "Another story then. Did Madame Fournier and Monsieur Michel resolve their differences, or did you encounter them again?"

"No, I never saw either of them after the matter was settled in court," Javert said. He pursed his lips in thought, drawing out memories of old cases and examining them thoughtfully. After all, if there was anything Javert had in great supply, it was stories of criminals being foolish. At once an idea struck him. "I know! Did Pontmercy explain how he came to owe me two pistols?"

"Only vaguely," Valjean said, pausing in his task to turn a curious look upon Javert. He rubbed at his face in thought, frowning and oblivious to the fact that so much dirt now stained his features that he looked freckled and half-browned by the sun. "He mentioned something about helping you apprehend a gang of thieves, I believe."

"Ha, he overstated his usefulness in the matter," Javert muttered. "He was supposed to sound the alarm and instead took fright and made off with my pistols. Or I suppose he felt that he could not turn Thénardier in because of his father's debt, and fled the house." The last was said with a contemptuous curl of his lips. Then he shook his head. "No, no, I should be fair. Had he not come to see the superintendent and told me of Thénardier’s plan to kidnap and rob a gentleman, I wouldn't have caught the Patron-Minette or Thénardier the first time. The Gorbeau case was quite a feather in my cap, no matter how it turned out in the end." 

Valjean, who had resumed his work as Javert spoke, seemed to have come upon some difficulty. His shoulders tensed and he struck at the ground with a great effort, as though to dislodge a stone or particularly stubborn piece of earth. "Thénardier?" Valjean said slowly. The name sounded odd, as though he were pronouncing the name for the first time, though Javert knew that wasn't the case. "I don't remember reading about that in the paper."

Belatedly, Javert realized perhaps he should have avoided mentioning Thénardier. He shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He cleared his throat and said awkwardly and a little hurriedly, "I do not know how you missed it. It was mentioned in all the papers that week, for the Patron-Minette is one of the most feared gangs in all of Paris. It seemed Thénardier had planned to kidnap a rich gentleman and extort money from him, and had enlisted the Patron-Minette to help in the crime. But perhaps another story might be better. It didn't end well. Thénardier and most of the Patron-Minette escaped prison some time later, and the so-called victim was apparently a scoundrel himself, for he fled out the window after his rescue--" He stopped, for Valjean's shoulders were quivering. Had further mention of Thénardier upset him? Javert ventured a cautious, "Valjean?"

"Out the window," Valjean muttered. There was a strange catch in his voice that made Javert instinctively straighten, tension coiling in his stomach. Valjean was turned away from him; Javert could not read his expression, though the other man's shoulders still trembled with some repressed emotion. "Did you-- did you catch him, the man who escaped out the window?"

"No," Javert said with a frown. It had been the most frustrating aspect of the case, knowing that another criminal had been within his grasp and escaped, at least until the prison break-out that had left him bereft of all but a few of the villains. "Still, he must have been a criminal. Why else would he run?"

"A criminal," Valjean echoed, and now he did turn, though his expression made no sense to Javert. Valjean's face was flushed, bright spots of color in his cheeks, his look conflicted. Even as Javert stared, Valjean's mouth trembled and he bit at his lower lip. He was trying, Javert realized in astonishment, not to laugh. "Yes, you're right."

This was said in such a certain tone that Javert's eyes narrowed. "You speak as though you know the man."

Valjean said nothing for another moment. He fiddled with his left sleeve, fingers plucking at the cuff. He muttered something under his breath too low for even Javert's attentive ears to make out. Before Javert could ask him to repeat himself, Valjean said, louder, "How did Marius describe him?"

"What does that matter?" Javert asked even as he racked his brain. In truth, he hadn't concerned himself overmuch with the prisoner, at least not until after the victim had made his escape and proved not to be a victim after all. Until that point, Javert had been focused on capturing the Patron-Minette. And Pontmercy had been gone, along with his two pistols. "I don't remember. I think it was a gentleman he knew only by sight, rather than by name. If he described him to me, I don't recall a word of it. But what does it signify? Do you--"

He stopped and studied the way Valjean's mouth continued to twitch, how Valjean was not quite meeting his eyes. Suspicion stirred, but no, that impossible. It had been incredible enough that Javert had been assigned to Montreuil-sur-Mur where Valjean was mayor. It was nearly beyond belief that they had met again at the barricade after so many years. No, it was too much to believe that they had met yet again and not even known it.

"No." This was said flatly, a firm denial.

"Yes," Valjean said, almost apologetic. His fingers twitched against the cuff of his sleeve as he added, a rueful smile creeping onto his face, "I even have the scar to prove it."

Javert passed a hand over his face. His emotions warred briefly, exasperation and wonder and amusement all battling for dominance. In the end, he gave in to amusement as Valjean had, and chuckled, though there was an edge to the sound. "It seems we always find each other, even when we do not know it," he said. "I suppose next you will tell me how you lived next door to my station-house for a time before you moved to the Rue de l'Homme Arme."

"No," Valjean said, but in a tone that made Javert fix him with a suspicious look. "No, nothing of the kind. Cosette and I lived for a handful of years at a convent before we came to the Rue Plumet and then to the Rue de l'Homme Arme."

Javert gave a start of astonishment and nearly squashed one of the bags of seeds as he rocked back on the bench. In all honesty, he had not thought on where Valjean had concealed himself all these years. He had assumed that Valjean had set up shop as Monsieur Fauchelevent at the Rue de l'Homme Arme and that had been the end of the matter. "A _convent_?"

"The convent of Petit-Picpus," Valjean continued, and Javert let out a sharp sound of surprise.

"What! The convent of Petit-Picpus! I know of it. I must have chased you all but onto the grounds! But however you did stay there for years? I didn't think they would let a man inside, much less an old jailbird." Too late he realized he should've chosen another word to describe Valjean, but at least Valjean didn't seem offended. 

Instead he shrugged and looked a little sheepish. "The real Monsieur Fauchelevent was sent there after he fell under the cart. He had been their gardener ever since. He pretended that I was his brother and Cosette his niece."

"Wait," Javert said, holding up his hand when Valjean seemed about to continue. Laughter caught in his throat, but he swallowed it down and continued, his voice thick with suppressed mirth, "Let me see if I have this correctly. You lived in a convent and concealed your identity for years before you and your daughter found an apartment to rent?"

"Yes," said Valjean.

Javert laughed. He laughed until he was breathless, until tears came into his eyes, until his stomach ached. "Very well," he gasped out between bouts of mirth. "Very well, I admit I was wrong! You are no saint but a man after all. No man who lied to nuns for years could possibly hope to obtain sainthood."

Valjean had watched him laugh with an almost baffled expression, as though Javert caught in the throes of amusement was an astonishing sight. Javert supposed it was, for in all honesty he could not remember ever laughing this much. He felt almost lightheaded. 

"I have said before I am no saint," Valjean said at last, though he smiled as he said it, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "At least now it seems you believe me."

Javert took out his handkerchief once more and dabbed at his eyes. "I do." The image of Valjean standing before the Mother Superior of the convent and lying to her face sprang into his mind and it was all he could do not to laugh again. He cleared his throat and remarked dryly, "I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised. You fooled an entire town once. It must have been simple enough to beguile nuns who believe the best in people and who are more concerned with heaven than earthly matters."

Valjean's expression twitched and he muttered something that sounded like, "You have obviously not met the nuns of Petit-Picpus." Louder, he said, "They trusted Father Fauchelevent. When he told them I was his brother Ultime, they believed him."

"Ultime," Javert muttered. If he had been standing, he would have made an ironic bow. As he was sitting, he inclined his head instead. "I must admit, the name suits you even less than M. Madeleine, Monsieur Ultime." He had meant to jest, and was therefore surprised to see Valjean almost wince, his gaze shuttering. "What? I intended no insult, but you must admit that the name does not fit you at all--"

"And yet I will bear it for the rest of my life," Valjean said. Javert was dismayed to find that a touch of weariness had crept into the other man's voice. "Do you know, when Thénardier attempted to blackmail me in his apartment, there was a moment when I thought he might say my name and I was horrified by the thought? Until I spoke my name to you at the sewers, I hadn't heard my name spoken since...well, since you pursued me to the outskirts of Petit-Picpus. I hadn't even said Jean Valjean aloud to myself to remember the sound of it." He was quiet for a moment, but it wasn't the sort of silence that invited a remark. “For a time I despised my name, for it was only a reminder of my past. But now I find that living under an alias…chafes.” 

Javert fidgeted, uncertain what to do about the quiet melancholy that touched Valjean's expression but knowing he wanted it gone. "Well, you have three now who know your true name." 

"Yes, and two of them call me Papa and Father," was said, not quite dryly.

"True enough," Javert said with a rueful twist of his lips. "But you can be assured _I_ will never call you that." That won him a small smile. Encouraged, he added, "I must call you Fauchelevent before others, excepting your daughter and your son-in-law, but otherwise--" He glanced around, but they were still the only ones in the garden. "Otherwise I will call you Valjean, of course."

Valjean made an aborted movement, as though he meant to rise to his feet, but then he settled back upon his knees. He rubbed at the back of his neck and offered Javert a small but sincere smile that banished the earlier melancholy. "Thank you." The words were quiet.

Javert waved off the gratitude, uncomfortable with it and the soft way Valjean was looking at him, as though Javert had given him a gift. "No need for that. Even if it weren't your true name, I must admit Jean Valjean is far more pleasant to the ear than Ultime Fauchelevent."

Valjean's lips twitched. "I agree, though I am somewhat biased," he said. There was still that pleased look on his face, and the way his gaze rested warmly on Javert made him suddenly regret he'd set his hat aside. "Still--"

"No, no more gratitude," Javert said hastily, and then cast around for a safe topic. "Where are your daughter and your son-in-law this morning?"

For a moment he thought Valjean was going to persist in thanking him once more, but then Valjean took up his gardening tool and turned again to the patch of earth. "They went to give alms to the poor," he said over his shoulder.

"I am surprised you didn't accompany them," Javert said, remembering how often Monsieur Madeleine had gone alms-giving.

"I will, once the garden is planted and needs less attention," Valjean said. He broke off for a moment. "And I thought you might visit today."

Javert blinked, a niggling sense of discomfiture making him pause and fumble for a response. He was a little puzzled, for surely it would have been easy enough to leave a note with Basque. But there was also an uncomfortable appreciation for the gesture-- a small, silly pleased sentiment that Valjean had remained behind, even if it had been done out of politeness's sake. By the time he'd settled on pointing out that Valjean had only needed to leave a note explaining where he'd gone and that Javert would have simply returned the next morning, however, Valjean was already continuing and the moment had passed.

"I think the beds will need to be raised."

"I will trust your judgment on that," Javert said. "The only plants I have ever helped to grow were  _florin d'or_  when I disturbed them during a pursuit." He grimaced. "I was picking the seeds or fruits or whatever you call them off my coat and trousers for weeks afterwards. The portress was not pleased when a few  _florin d'or_ sprouted outside her door."

Valjean chuckled. "I would imagine not," he said. It seemed now Javert would have to endure a lesson, for Valjean pointed the gardening tool at the upturned earth and began to explain why a raised bed would be better for the seeds. Most of it went over Javert's head, but he settled back on the bench to enjoy the show: the animation in Valjean's face, the vigor in his gestures as he shaped the future raised beds in the air with his hands, the enthusiasm in his voice as he detailed how he would put together the beds.

Valjean had donned his workman's clothes to garden, conceding only his summer coat to the impending summer heat. Even as Javert watched, Valjean turned to gesture energetically at the spot he claimed would be perfect for the sugar peas. The fabric of his waistcoat bunched across his shoulders and drew Javert's gaze to the muscles there. It was, Javert told himself belatedly, good to see that Valjean's clothes no longer hung so loosely.  

Before, Valjean had been ever taciturn and difficult to understand, his thoughts hidden behind the convict's glare, Madeleine's polite smile, Valjean's pensive look. But now Valjean knelt and gestured, his smile expansive, his speech unfettered, his carriage one of a man who no longer felt confined by fate or circumstance and who knew that if he looked over his shoulder he would only find Javert watching. 

Javert was unaccountably warmed by the thought, just as he had been pleased that Valjean had chosen to remain at the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire to keep him company. He even found himself smiling. Although he had no mirror and Valjean was turned away and oblivious, Javert was certain that he looked a fool. He tried to smooth out his expression, even running a hand over his mouth, but the smile seemed inclined to linger, as did the warmth that had spread through him.

Any moment now, he knew that Valjean would turn to gauge his interest and comprehension and spot the smile. Javert bowed his head and busied his hands with his snuffbox as he indulged in a pinch of snuff. By the time he was finished, he had regained control of his expression.

Naturally, Valjean chose that moment to ask his opinion on what he should include in the garden next year. The question nearly undid all Javert's efforts, for Valjean phrased it such: "What vegetables would you like for next year?" He gestured as though marking off potential choices from a list, his fingers darting in the air. "Lettuce, cabbage, radishes, onions-- there are plenty of spring vegetables to choose from. I do not know your preference."

The words caught Javert by surprise. He intended to stay by Valjean's side, of course, but when he thought of the future, he thought in terms of the next day, perhaps the next week. Next spring seemed a far-off time, an almost unfathomable distance on the path Javert had chosen. The image crept into his mind of Valjean, still wearing that foolish wide-brimmed heat, still with similar smudges of dirt on his face, but surrounded by spring flowers instead of summer ones.

"Javert?" Valjean's tone was tentative, and Javert blinked. The other man's smile had faded somewhat as Javert had kept silent, and now Valjean watched him with an almost cautious expression. 

Javert's tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth; it took him another second or two to speak. "You need not plant anything on my behalf. I can buy my own vegetables." The answer was a little rough, escaping past dry lips and a strangely tight throat, and made Valjean's smile dim a little bit more.

"Of course," Valjean said. He looked away, studying the progress he had made of the vegetable patch. "It was only a thought."

Javert cleared his throat. It was obvious he'd phrased things badly, that Valjean had taken it for a rebuke rather than a statement of fact. He floundered around for the right words, finally muttering, "Yes, well, are my preferences so important?" When Valjean looked sharply at him and seemed about to answer, Javert continued hurriedly. "Besides, I suspect you will have banished me from the garden entirely by the spring."

Now there was a puzzled frown on Valjean's lips. " _Banish_  you? Why?"

"We both know you will wheedle me into trying my hand at gardening at some point. And then I shall kill any plant you let me so much as touch, and you will be forced to turn me out for the good of your surviving vegetables," Javert said. It was a struggle to say the next sentence lightly, for the weight of the implied promise made the words stick in his throat and feel heavy on his tongue. "Next year I shall have to read literature and recount my work day to you from over the garden walls." 

Valjean's look flickered for a moment, a half-dozen emotions flashing across his face too quickly for Javert to decipher before finally settling on amusement. "I doubt you would be so terrible with the vegetables," he said. A new smile spread across his face and reached his eyes once more, which gleamed with humor. "And even if you were, I would only banish you back to your bench. Surely you could not kill a plant with a look."

Javert pursed his lips, as though thinking this over. "I don't know. According to many, I have a stare like Medusa," he said. This remark was rewarded by Valjean's quiet laughter. Encouraged, Javert began to tell Valjean of other odd abilities and strange names criminals had gifted him over the years until a quick glance at his watch showed he needed to leave.

When Laurent unthinkingly commented on the inspector's good mood later that afternoon, Javert raised an eyebrow, said repressively, "We are performing our duties. Why should I not be pleased?" and then refocused the conversation to the matter of Bissette, whom they had begun to investigate. 

 

* * *

 

The next morning found Javert crouching in the vegetable patch. He was balanced precariously on the balls of his feet, his coat and gloves abandoned on the bench and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows in an attempt to keep dirt off his clothes. He glowered at the spade in his hand, not quite certain how Valjean had convinced him to help plant the seeds, only knowing that somehow he had. “If these seeds don't grow, you have only yourself to blame,” he muttered.  

From the corner of his eye, he caught Valjean’s amused look. “I have already made the holes. You need only put in the seeds and cover them up with dirt. I think you will do fine." 

"If you say so," Javert said dubiously. If there was a way to smother the seeds with too much dirt, he was certain that he'd manage it. He plucked a seed from its bag and dropped the seed into the hole, then pushed a nearby pile of dirt over it. He patted the dirt with the back of the spade, feeling ridiculous.

"See?" Valjean sounded far too pleased with himself. 

Javert pursed his lips. "When they do not grow, I am saying I told you so," he warned. He ignored Valjean's soft laugh. He repeated the procedure with the next seed and then a third. The mid-morning sun warmed his skin through his shirt. Already he could feel sweat forming on the back of his neck. He glanced at Valjean. If Javert was warm, Valjean must be sweltering in his workman's clothes. 

"Can't you keep the servants from the garden?" he asked. When Valjean looked puzzled, Javert gestured at Valjean's clothes. "So that you wouldn't have to, well, hide your scars." He'd faltered briefly, for Valjean might not appreciate the reminder of the scars Toulon had left on him. "You must get hot." 

A rueful smile passed over Valjean's face. "I might ask the servants to give us privacy, but what if Monsieur Gillenormand and Mademoiselle Gillenormand want a turn around the garden?"

"Ah, yes, Monsieur and Mademoiselle Gillenormand," Javert said. He had not yet been properly introduced to Pontmercy's elusive grandfather and aunt, though he remembered that Monsieur Gillenormand was an old man and understood that he kept mostly to his rooms. Javert raised an eyebrow. "How often do they frequent the garden?" 

Valjean's gaze slid away from his. "I'm not certain."

Javert snorted. "In other words, they rarely come here. That seems more likely, since I haven't seen them once since I began my visits." 

Valjean still wasn't looking at him, apparently intent in his examination of one of the holes. "I did not realize you wanted to be introduced," he muttered.   
  
Javert narrowed his eyes. The remark that were they anything like Pontmercy, he should probably consider himself lucky that he had so far avoided a formal introduction rose to his lips, but he swallowed it down. Instead he examined the garden, its walls, and what he could see of the house. "Well, I could always see if there is a good vantage point to watch the house and stand guard."  
  
Valjean said nothing for a second. He had finally finished his examination of the hole and now glanced back at Javert, wearing a faint smile. "You're only trying to get out of planting the seeds, I think," he said lightly.   
  
Javert rolled his eyes at that ridiculous notion, but Valjean was already looking away once more. It seemed best to let the matter lie for the time being.  

They worked in silence for a while, Javert trying to keep his balance and not do anything ridiculous like topple over. The stains would be a little difficult to explain at the station. The quiet was comfortable, though the heat was not. Sweat stung Javert's eyes, and, unthinking, he wiped his hand across his brow. He immediately pulled his hand away and grimaced at the dirt caught under his fingernails and caking his skin.   

Before he could fish his handkerchief out of his pocket, Valjean was next to him, kneeling without concern in the dirt and offering his own. 

"Here," he said, holding out the starched white fabric. His lips twitched, as though Valjean fought a smile, but then, that was not surprising. Javert had no doubt he had a dark stain across his forehead and looked a proper fool. 

Javert should have waved it aside and used his own, but Valjean looked almost expectant. Doubtless he would misunderstand if Javert said no. "Thank you," he muttered after a moment. Their hands brushed as Javert took the handkerchief, Valjean's fingers warm. He made to wipe his forehead, and then paused, his attention caught by the initials U.F. stitched upon the handkerchief. He ran his thumb over the raised letters, remembering Valjean's weariness when he'd spoken of living out his life under an alias. He would have to start calling Valjean by name more often. 

He was aware that Valjean watched him, the weight of his gaze a light pressure against Javert's skin. He pursed his lips, setting aside his thoughts, and wiped his forehead with the handkerchief. He made a thorough attempt, rubbing until the skin there felt almost raw. Then he lowered the handkerchief, frowning briefly at the dirt stains. The monogram was all but hidden under the soil. 

"I'll get it cleaned," he said, and then looked up, prepared to argue against Valjean's objection. He found himself smiling faintly in anticipation of the debate, a small, amused look that he felt turning up the corners of his mouth.

The anticipated argument didn't come, for instead Valjean said nothing. Valjean was frowning; it wasn't a frustrated look, but a pensive, almost distracted one. His gaze lowered for a moment, seemed almost to study Javert’s mouth, still shaped in that smile, and then rose to not quite meet Javert’s eyes. One hand lifted and moved towards Javert's brow.     

Time seemed to slow as Javert stared at the approaching hand. Valjean's fingers would be callused, he knew, for the man never bothered with gloves, and warmed by the sun. Javert’s skin felt too tight, suddenly, his stomach clenching with what he told himself was surprise and not-- His dry lips parted. He meant to ask Valjean what he was doing, but only got as far as saying Valjean's name in a hoarse whisper. 

At the sound of Javert's voice, Valjean checked himself, his expression shuttering. His hand halted mid-gesture. A flush turned his face pink. There was a long silence, in which Valjean did not move and Javert did not let himself think of anything at all. 

"You, ah, missed some dirt," said Valjean at last. The words were said quietly, but still somehow seemed too loud in the quiet of the garden. The guarded look left his face slowly, replaced by a faint, almost sheepish smile. He pointed at a spot just above Javert's left eyebrow. The movement was slow and careful and his finger did not brush Javert's skin at all.

Valjean was not touching him, but Javert swore he could feel the heat radiating from the other man's hand nonetheless. His stomach tightened further, and he leaned back a little, resettling his weight briefly on his heels as he wiped his forehead again.  "Is it gone?" he asked, still rubbing at the spot. It was his turn to not quite meet Valjean's eyes as he refused to think about the moment that had just come and gone. 

"Yes," Valjean said, his voice still quiet. 

Javert tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and then snatched up the spade and the bag of seeds. "How long will it take for the vegetables to, to, I don't know the word, to be ready?" he asked, fishing out a seed with fingers that wanted to tremble. He immediately wished he’d taken another moment to compose himself, because his voice was hoarse and he knew that he sounded flustered. He pressed his lips tightly together and thrust a seed into the nearest hole with more force than was probably good for it. 

"To ripen, you mean? The vegetables grow at different speeds," Valjean said after a pause. When Javert darted a glance in his direction, Valjean looked relieved by the question, as though he too was glad for the change in topic. He rose to his feet, brushing dirt off his knees before he gestured at the different raised beds and stepped away from Javert. "The beets will be ready to eat in a month, the carrots and green beans two. The sugar peas are the hardest to guess. They ripen sometimes in two months, sometimes in two and a half, depending on the weather." 

Javert pursed his lips and looked over the vegetable patch. He told himself that he was glad for the distance Valjean had put between them; it made it easier for him to think of ways to continue steering the conversation in any direction but one that involved discussing what had just happened. 

"So you will have an overabundance of vegetables in two months," he said. He was pleased when his voice came out steady and sardonic. "Perhaps I should have bought you ones that ripened over a longer stretch of time." 

Valjean chuckled too loudly at that, as though Javert had made a joke. "No, no, you did well. There is always canning. In fact," he continued quickly, "I will show you the trick of it when the beets ripen. You need only a large pan, boiling water, salt, and the right type of jar. For beets, you must cut off the tops but leave the roots attached, you see, and then--"

Javert let Valjean ramble about the proper canning of beets, something he could honestly say he had no interest in whatsoever. Still, it was a suitable distraction. As Valjean talked and gestured, Javert busied himself with planting the seeds, soothed by the simple, repetitive movements. He was careful now to keep his hands well away from his face, even when his nose itched. He kept his mind focused on planting; he would pace and re-examine every second of that moment in the privacy of his apartment, he knew himself well enough to anticipate another sleepless night, but he would do his introspection when Valjean was not right there. He remained quiet for the rest of the visit, muttering the occasional comment whenever Valjean paused, but Valjean seemed prepared to prattle on about the canning methods of not only beets, but the carrots and green beans as well. 

It was not quite relief Javert felt when he looked at his watch and realized that it was time for him to go to work. He rose to his feet, rolled down his sleeves after he had wiped his hands clean of dirt with the handkerchief. Javert smoothed out the wrinkles in his sleeves, aware that Valjean watched him. "I should go," he muttered, tugging on his coat and taking up his hat from the bench. He paused with his hat not quite settled upon his head at Valjean's tentative, "Javert."

Javert turned to find Valjean worrying his lower lip with his teeth, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Yes?" he said, keeping his tone neutral even as his stomach twisted with sudden nerves. Surely Valjean would not choose now to speak on what had happened earlier. 

Valjean said nothing for a moment, just worried his lip further. At last he said, his remark careful but somehow with an air of dissatisfaction, as though he'd chosen the words deliberately but still found them wanting, "We can finish planting the seeds tomorrow." 

Javert opened his mouth to point out that Valjean would be able to finish the task himself today if he kept at it. Then he closed it and studied the tense way Valjean held himself, like he anticipated a blow or unhappy news. He narrowed his eyes, huffed out an exasperated breath. Well, it seemed he would not be allowed to give himself the time and distance of even a few days away from Valjean to gather his thoughts, for Valjean would surely misunderstand his absence. 

"I will be here tomorrow," he said, answering the unspoken query. 

Valjean hid his relief badly, or perhaps it was simply that now Javert knew to look for it. "Good," he said. "And if we finish early, we can read some more of  _Reveries_." 

"Very well," Javert said. He realized his hand was still frozen upon the brim of his hat. He removed his hand and fidgeted with his cravat, which had loosened a little during his exertions. "My laundress collects my laundry in two days. I will return your handkerchief after that."

Valjean made a vague gesture with his hand. "Take all the time you need," he said, but there was an undercurrent to the words that made it plain he spoke on more than the handkerchief. 

Despite himself, Javert's lips twitched in amusement. There was a contradiction. Take all the time you need, but return tomorrow. "I will see you in the morning," he said, and took his leave. 

Cosette met him at the gates of the garden and smiled warmly. "Good afternoon, inspector," she said after he'd tipped his hat to her and muttered a greeting. "I hope you've had a pleasant morning."

Javert did not laugh, but it was a very near thing. "It was...enlightening," he said dryly, and watched puzzlement crease her brow. He tipped his hat to her again, and made to pass her, for he did not wish to offer her any more strange remarks. Then he paused. "Madame, I have a question for you. How often do Monsieur Gillenormand and Mademoiselle Gillenormand frequent the garden?" 

If anything, Cosette's expression turned even more baffled. "Never, monsieur. Monsieur Gillenormand keeps mostly to his rooms and flowers make Mademoiselle Gillenormand sneeze. There are occasions when Monsieur Gillenormand accompanies me on a stroll through the gardens, but that tends to be in the evening, when it is not quite so warm." 

"Ah," Javert said. This time he did laugh: a quiet, sarcastic chuckle. "I suspected as much."

"Why do you ask?"

"When I asked your father to keep the servants from the garden to afford us some privacy, he made an excuse of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Gillenormand."

"Privacy," repeated Cosette, and there was a queer note in her voice. 

Javert studied the faint blush upon her face and the way her lips trembled a little so that it was impossible to judge whether she smiled or frowned. The suspicion sprang into his mind that perhaps she had seen something in his and Valjean's interactions that he had missed, that she would not be unduly surprised by the bewildering moment he and Valjean had just shared, and that she now misunderstood his request for privacy. "Your father works most of the day in the garden, but he cannot roll up his shirtsleeves for fear of discovery and so suffers in the heat," he explained rather hastily, fighting back a flush of his own. He grimaced a little at her look of incomprehension. He cast a quick glance around to assure himself they were alone, and lowered his voice. "Have you not noticed that he always wears the most clothing possible even on the warmest of summer days? He hides his scars." Louder, he said, "He used your husband's aunt and grandfather as his reason, but it seems they are not a proper excuse."

"No, they are not," Cosette said slowly. She pursed her lips, pensive for a moment, and then nodded to herself. "He is still recovering from his illness. He should not suffer unnecessarily. I will speak to him about it, monsieur."

Javert allowed himself a small smile at the thought of Cosette forcefully persuading Valjean to give up this particular foolishness. "I am certain you can convince him," he remarked. With that, he bowed and passed through the gateway.  

 

* * *

 

“Good morning, monsieur,” Basque said the following morning. He didn’t budge from his position at the gate, blocking Javert from entering and heading towards the garden. Instead Basque cleared his throat.  "I'm to inform you that the family is taking a late breakfast." 

Both of Javert's eyebrows lifted skyward at that, surprised. He wondered what had caused the delay in the meal. "I see," he said. He shrugged. The gesture made his head pound, and he repressed a wince. Two cups of coffee earlier had not done much to counteract the effects of a sleepless night spent pacing his room. "Well, please inform Monsieur Fauchelevent I will wait in the garden."  

The servant was too well-trained to look embarrassed; nevertheless he did not quite meet Javert's eyes as he coughed and said, "You are invited to join them, monsieur." 

Javert narrowed his eyes. A small suspicion was beginning to form in the back of his mind. "Am I," he said neutrally. "And I suppose this was Monsieur Fauchelevent’s idea." 

It wasn't a question, but Basque answered him nonetheless. "I do not know, monsieur, but it was Madame la Baronne who extended the invitation."

Javert did not bother to repress his snort. "Of course she did. And her father had no hand in this." He pursed his lips. "Well, I suppose it would be unpardonably rude if I declined." He paused, but wasn't surprised when the other man kept silent. At last he shook his head. "Very well. Show me the way." 

Cosette, Pontmercy, and Valjean were seated at the dining room table when Javert and Basque entered the room; so too were two unfamiliar figures, an elderly man dressed, strangely enough, in the outdated fashion of an incroyable, and a middle-aged woman whose expression had the stamp of melancholy upon it. 

"Monsieur Javert," Basque announced as Javert took off his hat and sketched a brief, awkward bow to the group. 

"There you are, inspector!" Cosette cried, smiling at him. "I am so glad you could join us. Please, have a seat and help yourself to the meal."

The only open seat, naturally, was by Valjean, who wore a serene look as he lifted a cup to his lips and took a slow sip of his drink. There wasn't so much as a hint of amusement on his face, but Javert was certain the man was laughing at him. 

Javert narrowed his eyes slightly, but didn't argue against Cosette’s request, allowing Basque to relieve him of his hat and coat. 

"So this is the inspector we've heard so much about," Monsieur Gillenormand said. A broad smile revealed the man had begun to lose his teeth, but there was still strength in his voice as he laughed heartily. "It is good to finally put a face to the name, monsieur! I admit when we first met, I was too distracted to pay much attention. All I could remember was a hat and your gruff insistence that Marius was dead. It made for a strange mental image of you." 

"Oh, yes, how foolish of me," Cosette said, looking between them. "I forgot that you have not been formally introduced. Monsieur Javert, may I present Monsieur Gillenormand and Mademoiselle Gillenormand, Marius's grandfather and aunt. Monsieur Gillenormand, Mademoiselle Gillenormand, may I present Inspector Javert, Papa's friend." This time the appellation fell easily and without hesitation from Cosette's lips.  

"I am glad to meet you under much better circumstances, inspector," Gillenormand said with another loud laugh. His daughter nodded in silent agreement. Gillenormand waved an expansive hand at the table. "Please, help yourself."

Javert studied the elaborate breakfast setting. There was the usual toast, of course, but what appeared to be four different types of jams, along with a half-dozen different dishes. Javert thought of the toast and beans breakfast his portress had prepared earlier, and then of the simple breakfasts Madame Mercier had made. He suppressed his amusement. No wonder Valjean was already looking healthier; here Cosette would find it easy to force food upon him.  "I have already had breakfast, but I might have some toast and jam, thank you," he said. He was a guest, after all, and it seemed rude to refuse the man's hospitality. He sat down next to Valjean, who still wore that serene look.

"Is this some petty revenge for my telling your daughter that you needed privacy in the garden?" Javert whispered. 

"I have no idea what you mean. Cosette and I only thought you wished to be formally introduced to Monsieur Gillenormand and Mademoiselle Gillenormand," Valjean said calmly. He looked at Javert for a moment, one corner of his mouth temporarily turning downwards. Apparently he had noticed the circles under Javert's eyes. He pushed one of the smaller plates towards Javert. "Try the sardines. I'm told they're very good."

"You know very well I wished for nothing of the kind," Javert muttered under his breath, but after a second his lips twitched in amusement at Valjean’s attempt at duplicity and betrayed him. He reached for a roll as he added, "And I dislike sardines." 

"Then perhaps have some sausage," Valjean suggested. The faint frown eased when Javert sighed but moved one of the sausages onto his plate. Valjean cleared his throat. "We are almost finished with the planting," he announced to the group. 

"Already?" Pontmercy said, looking a little surprised. "You do quick work, Father."

"Well, the inspector has been helping me," Valjean said. 

Javert snorted at Pontmercy's astonished expression. "Hardly. I put some seeds in the ground and filled in the holes with dirt. I saved him perhaps an hour or two's effort, that is all." 

"You do not give yourself proper credit. Oh, that reminds me to ask. Where did you purchase the seeds? They're of good quality," Valjean said. "I thought I might seek out the person you purchased them from, see what stock he or she has for a spring garden." 

Javert snorted again. "How do you know that the seeds are good quality? Perhaps you should wait to judge them until you actually see and taste the vegetables." 

"And how do you know they are not? You said yourself you have no experience with plants," Valjean countered.

Javert opened his mouth to retort, but was checked by a sharp bark of laughter from Gillenormand. 

The table rattled as Gillenormand slapped its surface and laughed again. "Marius had told me that Monsieur Fauchelevent became positively verbose when in your company, inspector, but I thought he was exaggerating! I believe that this is the most Monsieur Fauchelevent has spoken in front of me in all the time I have known him. Tell me, how did you two come to be friends?" 

Javert stared at the man's expectant, curious expression. The mad impulse to answer honestly and say that they had met at Toulon rose to his throat and caught there, unsaid. Beside him, Valjean had gone very still, his lips parted in surprise, and both Cosette and Pontmercy had turned alternating shades of red and white.  

Javert leaned back in his chair. He didn't raise his hand to his whiskers but kept his hands for the moment in his lap, for any gesture he made would have doubtless betrayed his nerves. "Forgive me, monsieur, but the story paints me in a disagreeable light," he said evenly. "I would prefer not to speak of it." 

Gillenormand looked torn between confusion and disappointment. "If you insist…." He frowned, curiosity glinting in his eyes. He opened his mouth as though to continue speaking.

"But I haven't answered Fauchelevent's question. It was a woman who sold me the seeds, at the market close by my station-house," Javert said before Gillenormand could try to persuade him to tell the tale and Javert was forced to utter all manner of half-truths. "I didn't catch her name, nor do I recall her face very well, but my next day off is in three days. I could retrace my steps and we could visit her then." 

"That sounds agreeable," Cosette said hastily. Color was slowly returning to her face, and she even managed a quick laugh. "Thou hast been so busy with the garden, Papa, thou hast not ventured outside the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire since we moved the last of thy belongings into thy rooms. Perhaps thou and the inspector should make a day of it, walk and enjoy the city." 

"Yes, that is an excellent idea," added Pontmercy. He nodded so fervently that Javert marveled that his head did not fall from his shoulders. "Perhaps you can investigate that market, Father, and see if Cosette and I should visit it when we're buying supplies for the party."

"The party," Javert echoed. He glanced at Valjean in time to see a faint grimace pass over the other man's face. 

"It will be Marius's birthday in late July, inspector," Cosette said, seizing upon this new conversation eagerly. She beamed at her husband and patted his hand. "We are celebrating."

Well, that explained Valjean's grimace. Javert very much doubted the man was relishing the idea of a party, particularly one populated by Pontmercy's acquaintances.  Javert started to smirk, but his amusement was firmly squelched by Pontmercy's earnest, "We have not yet sent out the invitations, Inspector Javert, but you are certainly invited."

"Ah," Javert said, and found he had to repress a grimace of his own. He busied himself with cutting the sausage into small, bite-sized pieces. "I will have to see if my work permits it," he began, then raised his gaze and caught sight of Cosette's steely look. "But I suspect I will be able to attend for an hour at least, depending," he concluded. He ignored Valjean's slight smile.  

"Surely you will be able to stay a bit longer than that! It will be a grand affair, inspector!" Gillenormand said heartily. The confusion had left his face, and instead he was merry with enthusiasm as he leaned over the table and informed Javert, "We shall be making up for last year, for Marius was far too ill then to even be aware of his birthday." 

"And I am very excited," Cosette said with a bright laugh. It was Valjean's turn to have his hand patted as she smiled at him. Her smile was a mixture of fondness and exasperation. "We've always celebrated my birthday, Papa and I, but we never celebrated Papa's. It will be my first time preparing a birthday celebration for someone else!" 

Valjean looked a little embarrassed. "Thou should have said thou wished to celebrate my birthday. I don't remember the date, but we could have picked out a day."

"It is some time in October," Javert said. He took a bite of the sausage. It was only once he had swallowed that he noticed the silence. When he raised his eyes, he found everyone at the table staring at him with varying degrees of bafflement and curiosity. He thought back on his words and realized belatedly that perhaps it would seem strange that he remembered Valjean's birthday when Valjean himself did not. But he could not exactly say he recalled the fact from Valjean's arrest records. He shrugged. "But then, I could be wrong. I myself have never placed much importance on birthdays."

"You do not celebrate your birthday at all?" Cosette asked. "You and Papa are quite--" She checked herself and laughed, shaking her head. "Surely you do not ignore it completely."

Javert shrugged again. He wished they would move on to something else, but Cosette's curious gaze was fixed upon him and he could not think of how to avoid answering. He fiddled with his fork. "If I ever think on it, it is only to note the passage of time."

"Did you not celebrate it as a child, at least?" This inquisitive query came from Pontmercy. 

"No." Javert had meant to sound matter-of-fact, but it came out short and a little sharp. His mother had focused upon the practicalities of keeping him clothed and fed and sometimes even with a roof over their heads. She had not concerned herself with frivolities such as birthday celebrations. "But come," he said with a wave of his hand, "this cannot be interesting to you. Let us talk on something else."   

Cosette's expression suggested that she disagreed and in fact found the topic of Javert's past quite intriguing, but she did not argue, for which Javert was almost grateful. Instead, she maneuvered the conversation back to the party planning. 

Javert let her, Pontmercy, and both Gillenormands talk about the upcoming celebration, the inconsequential words going in one ear and out the other. He finished the sausage. As soon as his plate was empty, Valjean nudged a plate of  _pommes de terre duchesse_  towards him. Javert stared at it. After a moment, his lips twitched in a half-smile and he muttered under his breath, "That trick of staring hopefully until the person gives in and eats might work for your daughter, but it will not work on me." 

"Oh? It seemed to work with the sausage," Valjean retorted softly, a faint smile playing upon his mouth.

Javert snorted before he could stifle the sound. Thankfully, Gillenormand had chosen that precise moment to pound his fist on the table in response to something Pontmercy had said, and so the exchange seemed to have gone unnoticed. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Valjean hesitate. A shadow passed briefly over Valjean's face, and then his lips twitched back into the shape of a faint smile. "I am glad you came today."

"Yes, well, your late breakfast plan would have been spoiled if I hadn't," Javert said, knowing that was not what Valjean meant. He seemed to have tied his cravat too tightly that morning; it almost choked him as he swallowed. "After breakfast--"

"Cosette has not said if you are married, Monsieur Javert, but if you are, you must bring your wife to the party as well," Mademoiselle Gillenormand said.

Javert did not quite startle, his attention jerked abruptly from Valjean to the woman, but it was a very near thing. He blinked at Mademoiselle Gillenormand, who offered him a polite, reserved smile. "Wife?" he repeated, catching the incredulous note in his voice too late. He gave a quick jerk of his head and added matter-of-factly, "I am unmarried." 

She looked almost sympathetic. "A widower, then?"

Javert didn't narrow his eyes, though he wished to. What was she after with these questions? "No." 

Next to his daughter, Gillenormand let out a low chuckle and made a gesture as though he'd slapped his knee beneath the table. "Ah, so you have a mistress then! I admit that I believe all should find themselves someone to wed, for marriage is a wonderful thing, but if your woman is content as the matter stands, why then, let the matter rest." 

Javert almost smiled at that, for the old man looked proud of him, as though Javert had done something remarkable and impressive by not marrying. Then he caught sight of the thundercloud forming upon Cosette's face. He resisted the urge to say something sarcastic, for that would be rude to his hosts. Instead he remarked mildly, "Ah, no, monsieur. There is no one. Sailors have the sea for their mistress. I have had my duties to the police for mine."

Gillenormand looked baffled by this, as though Javert had spoken in tongues. 

"And I am certain that if the good inspector were to meet a woman he cared for, he would respect her and insist upon marriage," Pontmercy said. There was a strange note in his voice, and when Javert glanced at him, he found the young man glowering at Gillenormand. 

A pale flush came upon Gillenormand's face, and he ducked his head, looking abashed. "Yes, you are quite right, my boy, quite right," he muttered. He reached out and patted first Cosette's hand, then Pontmercy's shoulder; Javert wondered at the apologetic look and the sudden tension in the air. Gillenormand cleared his throat. "I only hope he would have found as perfect a match as you did with Cosette, my boy."

While Cosette looked somewhat mollified by this, Pontmercy still looked a trifle sullen and inclined to argue. 

Javert glanced at Valjean to see if Valjean understood this strange exchange, but Vajean looked just as baffled as Javert felt. Javert cleared his throat. It was time for a change in topic, and one that was not about Javert's own background or his thoughts on matrimony. "I do not believe I have heard the story of how you met your husband, Madame Pontmercy," he said. 

The clouds cleared from Cosette's expression at that, and she smiled warmly. "It isn't as exciting a story as one of your cases, monsieur, but I must admit my partiality to it," she said with a merry laugh. She took her husband's hand in hers and squeezed it until his frown shifted to a half-smile. Then she launched into the story, which had something to do with Cosette and Pontmercy staring at each other and not speaking for a ridiculous stretch of time in the Luxembourg Gardens. 

The strange tension passed. As Cosette continued to speak, Javert absently helped himself to one of the  _pommes de terre duchesse_. As long as he kept his mouth full, he reasoned, no one would ask him any further questions. 

When breakfast was finished, both Gillenormands excused themselves, leaving the rest of the diners at the table. "I am glad you agreed to eat with us, inspector," Cosette said with a smile. "You must join us again." 

Valjean's expression was serene, but Javert was certain the man was inwardly pleased with himself and how neatly Javert had fallen into this little trap. "That is an excellent idea, my dear," Valjean said, smiling at Cosette. 

Javert inclined his head, acknowledging Valjean's victory. "Perhaps I shall," he said as he got to his feet. Then he steeled himself, ignoring the nervous flutter in his stomach, and turned to Valjean. "Shall we go to the garden?"

Valjean's expression didn't change, save for perhaps a momentary nervous flickering of his eyes that might only have been in Javert’s imagination. 

"Do you need any assistance, Father?" asked Pontmercy. 

Before either Valjean or Javert could answer, Cosette took hold of her husband's arm. "I think they wish to finish the planting themselves, Marius," she said with a smile. "Besides, now I am nostalgic for the Luxembourg Gardens. Why don't we go there?" Her expression turned almost sly and she whispered something that Javert didn't catch, but which made Pontmercy’s eyes widen and his cravat bob as he swallowed. 

"Enjoy thy walk," Valjean said, either oblivious to Pontmercy's flush or choosing to ignore it. Then he smiled. "Ah, and here are your coat and hat, Javert. Thank you, Yount." This was said to Basque.

Javert frowned, confused and wondering if he'd misheard. " _Yount_? I thought--"

"Oh, my grandfather has a strange quirk of renaming his servants, inspector," Pontmercy said, looking uncomfortable. "All the female servants are called Nicolette, and the male servants are named after their provinces."

Javert studied Valjean's slightly thunderous look. So that was where Cosette had acquired that particular expression. "I see," he said, and allowed Yount to help him into his coat. "Thank you, Yount." 

He walked slightly behind Valjean, unable to keep from clasping his hands behind his back. The gesture doubtless betrayed his nerves, he thought sourly, for Valjean kept sneaking backwards glances at him. It wasn't until they reached the vegetable patch that Javert cleared his throat. 

“Radishes,” he said.

Valjean blinked. Confusion creased his forehead, as though Javert had uttered a non sequitur, which Javert supposed he had. “Radishes?”

Javert found that he had to clear his throat again. He fiddled with his too-tight cravat and stock for another second, loosening them a little. “You asked the other day what spring vegetables I prefer. Radishes. My landlady serves them with butter and salt and some herbs I do not recall. It’s one of her better dishes.” He realized he was babbling and shifting his weight from one foot to the other; he shut his mouth and forced himself to stillness.

Still, Valjean apparently took his meaning, for the puzzled furrow upon his brow eased, and a hint of a smile formed upon his lips, tentative but nevertheless present. “Radishes. They are not my favorite, I am more partial to carrots, but your portress's recipe sounds...." Valjean trailed off, and then pursed his lips as though he too fought not to prattle. He rubbed at his jaw. "Remind me to ask the woman who sold you the seeds if she will have radishes for the spring. Perhaps we can even attempt your portress's dish, if it is not a private family recipe.” He turned away and picked up one of the gardening tools that had been left on the bench. He fiddled with it before he said at last, "Come, if we start now, we might be able to finish planting before you need to leave for your shift." 

Javert didn't immediately move towards the bench to set his coat and his hat aside. Instead he let out a slow breath and passed a relieved hand over his face, surreptitiously wiping at the sweat that had broken out under the rim of his hat. Valjean was no longer looking in his direction; he could allow himself the gesture. He was still uncomfortable with more than rote prayers, continuing to shy away from more personal exchanges with God as Valjean seemed to inclined towards, and yet he caught himself wishing to thank God that Valjean had not misunderstood his deferment as a rejection. 

"Javert."

Drawn abruptly from his thoughts, he flushed almost guiltily at Valjean's call. He wetted his lips with his tongue, aware that Valjean watched him with one of his inscrutable looks. Javert cleared his throat, tried to think of an excuse for his delay. He found one in his survey of Valjean's summer coat, the sleeves still covering Valjean's wrists. He raised an eyebrow. "Your daughter had mentioned to me that she planned to speak to the servants and keep them from the garden while you worked. Did she?"

Valjean's faint smile twisted as he answered. "Yes, she did, although I cannot imagine _where_  she got that idea." 

The remark was uttered with not so much a hint of sarcasm as it was with an overabundance of it; Javert didn't bother to hide his smirk. "She did mention to me that she was concerned about you suffering in the heat," was all he said. 

Valjean huffed out a laugh that was a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "How considerate, to be so concerned with my health," he said, the sarcasm somewhat muted now but still present. Then his smile shifted again, and it was his turn to look amused, though he did not smirk as Javert had. "I meant to ask. Did you enjoy the breakfast? I am glad you were finally introduced to Monsieur and Mademoiselle Gillenormand."  

Javert narrowed his eyes. "Smugness doesn't suit you," he said. "You know perfectly well I had no desire to meet them. And what was all that nonsense about if I was married or not?" 

Valjean looked even more amused. “I believe the good woman was merely curious.”

“Curious,” Javert said with a snort. “Yes, she seemed quite curious about things that are none of her business.” He pursed his lips. “I shudder to think what would happen if she and Madame Mercier ever met.”  

“Well, we shall have to ensure that they never do,” Valjean said, and then chuckled. He looked up at the sky and made a little clucking sound. “But come, we will have lost half the morning at this rate. Let’s get to work before it grows too warm.”

“Very well,” Javert said. He moved to the bench, set down his hat and shrugged off his coat. In the middle of rolling up his sleeves, he turned to find Valjean doing the same. His gaze caught and lingered on the few pale scars upon Valjean's arms where working in the quarries had left their marks and a more recent scar upon his left forearm. Javert recalled Valjean’s remarks about the Gorbeau House and having the scar to prove he had been there, wondered if that scar was the proof. His throat tightened as he thought of the scars that must be hidden still beneath Valjean's shirt. It had been one thing to tell Cosette about the scars; it seemed it was quite another to see even one or two of them stark against Valjean's exposed skin. His stomach roiled.  

Valjean caught him looking. His hand stilled in the middle of rolling up his right sleeve. His expression shuttered. Something like embarrassment creased his forehead and turned down the corners of his mouth. "I do not have to roll up my sleeves, if the sight dist--" he began gently.

"Oh, stop," Javert said crossly, though his irritation was mostly at himself for letting his discomfort show so plainly on his face. He shook his head and attempted a smile that doubtless looked more like a grimace. "I am not so squeamish that you must--" He waved his hand vaguely, momentarily at a loss for words. He shook his head again and said firmly, "Roll up your sleeves. I would rather you be comfortable." 

Valjean didn't smile, but he rolled up the second sleeve without further comment and picked up his ridiculous hat from the bench. Silence fell, thickened the air between them. There was still tension in Valjean's shoulders and the lines of his jaw, and his gaze kept flickering down to his own arms and then towards Javert and finally away to the garden patch as he bent slowly to his work. 

The silence grew heavier; it weighed upon Javert, made him fumble with the bag of seeds he was handling. When he could take the silence and Valjean's darting looks no longer, he cleared his throat. "Valjean." 

Valjean looked at him without expression. 

Javert resisted the urge to tug at his whiskers, though that might have helped him to think more clearly. Instead he said, picking his way carefully and hesitantly through his speech, "If the sight of your scars bothers me, it is because they remind me how I...how I tried to return you to similar chains and-- but that is my own failing, not yours. Do not trouble yourself on my account, Valjean. Not about this."

Valjean didn't speak for a moment, but his gaze was fixed upon Javert's face, his look contemplative now. At last, one corner of his mouth turned up, as hesitant as Javert's fumble for words. "Very well. But what is past is past, Javert."

Javert, remembering how Valjean had nearly starved to death to prevent his past from interfering with Cosette's happiness, knew that it wasn't as easy as Valjean now tried to make it out to be, but he did not argue. Instead he moved the bag of seeds from one hand to the other. He said briskly, "Now we really  _have_  wasted half the morning. We will get no chance at  _Reveries_  today, I think, and you will have to finish planting the carrots yourself."

Valjean's smile strengthened. "I believe you're holding the bag for the beets." 

"Ah," Javert said, dubiously looking down at the bag. "I will trust your judgment on that," he said, and then made a face as another thought struck him. "Valjean, about this party of your son-in-law's...."

"Cosette and Marius have invited you," Valjean said, and now amusement warmed his expression and reached his eyes, which were suddenly as bright and mischievous as a sparrow's. There was a thread of laughter in his voice as he continued, "I do not think you can make an excuse and avoid it. In all honesty, I suspect Cosette will go to the station-house and beg the day off from the Prefect himself so that you can attend."

A bark of half-horrified, half-amused laughter escaped Javert as he imagined Cosette leaning over Gisquet's desk and explaining earnestly that Javert must be allowed to attend her husband's birthday party.  "Good God! That would be a sight to see. And knowing your daughter, I don't doubt she would speak to Monsieur Gisquet directly. I will have to make my own excuses to him. What day is the party?"

"Ah, July 23rd." 

Javert glanced down at his clothing and didn't quite purse his lips though it was a near thing. He had attended such a party twice before in an official capacity when the owner of the house had worried about thieves. However, that had not entailed actually interacting with the guests but rather merely keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. This would be a very different occasion. He would have to figure something out by way of proper attire in the intervening weeks. Perhaps a pawnshop might have something he could rent. He shook his head, dismissing the issue for the moment, and then moved to crouch in the dirt beside Valjean. "Ah well," he said with a twitch of his lips. "If I cannot avoid it,  _you_  certainly cannot. I suppose we shall see if misery really does love company." 

Valjean's lips twitched. Perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight, for the sun chose that moment to break through the clouds and fall upon them, but the last vestiges of tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. "You mean we shall hide together in a corner of the ballroom until Cosette forces us to dance."

" _Dance_?" Genuine dismay colored Javert's voice. He nearly overbalanced as he turned to stare at Valjean. He had escaped having to dance for the first fifty-odd years of his life; he'd rather hoped to continue the trend. He grimaced. "Unless your daughter  _wants_  her guests to go home with bruised feet, Valjean, she will not force me onto the dance floor." 

Valjean looked sympathetic. No, empathetic, Javert silently corrected himself, for Valjean pursed his lips and said, "Perhaps we should both use that reasoning. I suspect I know just as little about dancing as you do." He paused and made a quiet noise. It sounded like stifled laughter. "Though perhaps we should wait until closer to the party so she does not, ah, suggest dance lessons." 

"Dance lessons," Javert said, not bothering to hide his disgust. He dropped another seed into a hole and covered it with dirt. "In another moment you will tell me that Mademoiselle Gillenormand intends to play matchmaker or something equally horrifying." 

Valjean was suspiciously silent. When Javert glanced over, Valjean's face was turned away, and he seemed quite interested in one of the holes currently out of Javert's reach. 

"Valjean," Javert growled, and met Valjean's half-amused, half-apologetic look with a frown. "Do not tell me that she--"

"She might not intend to do anything of the sort," Valjean said. He rubbed at the back of his neck, offering Javert a sheepish smile. "But she has, ah, made a similar attempt for me." 

Javert snorted. He remembered very well how several of the unmarried women of Montreuil-sur-Mer had set their cap for Monsieur Madeleine and his fortune, for his own widowed landlady had been one of those ambitious women. He especially recalled the good woman's mounting frustration at Madeleine's obliviousness until she and the others all gave up their dreams of wedding the richest man in the city. 

"I take it no congratulations are in order," he said, somewhat dryly.

"No," Valjean said. He rubbed at his neck again, a flustered movement. His gaze flickered away and studied something past Javert's shoulder. "I believe Cosette, ah, took Mademoiselle Gillenormand aside and explained that I am...content as I am." 

There was a certain undertone to Valjean's voice that made heat wish to creep into Javert's face. He recognized a similar fumbling for words akin to his rambling speech on radishes. Javert forced the warmth back and busied himself with carefully patting the dirt over the latest planted seed to ensure it was completely buried. Once he was satisfied, he muttered, "Yes, well, I suppose I will simply have to hope Mademoiselle Gillenormand gives up on any matchmaking schemes." 

"I could ask Cosette to suggest to Mademoiselle--" Valjean began, and paused at Javert's expression. Then something like amusement returned to his face. "Or you can ward off the women with your terrible dancing," he said, almost cheerfully. "I don't think any woman would feel kindly disposed towards a man who stomps upon her feet." 

Javert resisted the urge to ask if that was how Valjean had avoided matrimony in Montreuil-sur-Mer, though he did not remember Madeleine attending any parties there. Instead, he merely rolled his eyes and said, "I suppose that is true." He nudged at Valjean with his elbow, enjoying the other man's startled look. "Now, move over so I can actually plant these seeds. I do not think we will have a chance to read  _Reveries_  today, but at least we can finish planting." 

Valjean smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing. "All right," he said placidly, and then they both bent to their work in earnest, a comfortable silence settling between them.

 

* * *

 

The marketplace seemed even busier than when Javert had purchased the seeds, but perhaps that was not so surprising. It was the first cool day in a week, a breeze and a few clouds mitigating the heat of the sun. The crowds parted slowly but surely when Javert strode forward. Valjean followed close behind. When they came to the stall where Javert had bought the seeds, the woman looked up with a friendly smile that turned friendlier still as recognition lit her eyes. 

"Ah, monsieur!" she said brightly, nodding to him. "I take it your friend was pleased by the seeds? I knew she would be. Have you come for more then?" She paused and a hint of what might have been envy crept into her voice as she said, "Your friend must have quite a large garden!"

Javert kept his consternation off his face, but only barely. He had completely forgotten that the woman had assumed 'his friend' was a euphemism for a mistress. Before he would have thought nothing of it, but with Valjean standing beside him, the idea of awkwardly explaining that this was his friend was, well, unappealing. He pursed his lips, tried to figure out a way to phrase things without causing an even great misunderstanding. 

"I don't know the difference between a large or small garden, madame, but I did not actually come for more seeds."

"Oh?" the woman said. She did not bother to hide her curiosity. 

Next to him, Valjean cleared his throat. "Yes, madame. I have plans for a spring garden, and wished to learn what you might be offering come spring-time," he said. 

When Javert glanced towards him, Valjean wore a look of pleasant interest. If he was wondering at the woman's assumption that Javert had purchased the seeds for a woman and why Javert hadn't corrected her, the confusion wasn't on his face. 

The woman smiled. "Ah, so you've brought me a potential customer. Thank you for that, monsieur," she said cheerfully to Javert, and then turned her smile upon Valjean. "I tend to stick to the old favorites, monsieur, carrots, asparagus, turnips, potatoes, but if there's something rarer you're interested in, I might be able to get my hands on it if you give me enough time." 

"W-- I was thinking of those, yes, but nothing particularly rare. Radishes, as well as--" Valjean began naming other vegetables as well, but Javert didn't listen. 

Instead he told himself it was ridiculous to feel so pleased by Valjean singling out radishes. As the woman and Valjean continued to speak, Javert busied himself with watching the various passerby. Such a crowded marketplace would doubtless be ripe for pickpockets. He watched closely, keeping a sharp eye out, but had not spotted any thieves by the time Valjean pressed a brief touch to his elbow and said, "Shall we go and look at some of the other stalls, see if there's anything Cosette and Marius might like for the party?" 

"Yes, of course." Javert tipped his hat to the woman. 

She smiled back. "If your friend has plans for a spring garden as well, monsieur, please come to my stall," she said. She winked at him. "I'll make certain she's satisfied." 

"Ah, yes," Javert said. He didn't look at Valjean. It was only with effort that he kept warmth from his face. He beat a rather hasty retreat into the crowd, Valjean close at his heels. "You realize, of course, I have no idea what things they need for the party," he said over his shoulder, rather hoping to change the subject. 

Thankfully, Valjean seemed content to let the matter lie, at least for the moment, for he said, "Cosette gave me a list of things to look for." When Javert dared a quick glance over his shoulder, it was to find Valjean unearthing a piece of paper from one of his pockets and squinting at it. 

"Well, let me see it," Javert said after Valjean had seemingly reread the list three times at least and made no move to discuss Cosette's suggestions. "I know this market somewhat better than you. We might save time that way."

Valjean raised an eyebrow, a little puzzled. "Do you have somewhere else to be? I thought today was your day off." 

Javert resisted the urge to purse his lips once more, though he knew how Valjean would look at him in the next moment. "I'd thought to check in on Moreau and see how his recovery is going," Javert explained. He wasn't surprised when Valjean's expression shifted. He huffed a little, a small, half-exasperated sound. "Enough with that look! Sergeant Moreau is a promising boy, that's all. And I am not being altruistic. The sooner he is able to return to duty, the sooner I can have him ward off Laurent."

Valjean looked even more amused. "Is Laurent still underfoot then?"

"Constantly," Javert said. He glanced over the list. "I think some of these might be found in a stall on the other end of the market. Shall we go?" 

"After you," Valjean said, an irritating smile still on his face, and motioned for Javert to lead the way. 

 

* * *

 

The doctors were beginning to wean Moreau off the laudanum, it seemed, since he was at last out of danger and slowly on the mend. Moreau had lost the frenetic energy and fever-bright look from the previous visits; instead, his face was somewhat pinched with discomfort, his voice hoarse but nevertheless steady as he asked how the Bissette case was proceeding.  

"Slowly," Javert admitted with a frown. "From watching the place, we are fairly certain the washhouse is a front for some sort of black market smuggling, but we cannot get anyone into the washhouse to learn more, at least not without letting Bissette know that we're on to him."

"Why not ask Mademoiselle Thénardier?" Moreau suggested. "She works there and already suspects him. She told me that she knows a criminal when she sees one--" He stopped abruptly, a flush creeping into his face. 

Javert eyed him, taking in the flustered look Moreau now wore. "I don't remember her saying anything of the sort when we met her during her father's arrest," he said slowly.

"She didn't, monsieur," said Moreau, who seemed suddenly quite fascinated with the ceiling. Avoiding Javert's gaze, Moreau licked his lips. "Apparently, I, ah, that is, apparently the laudanum caused me to fixate on the idea that I must write to Mademoiselle Thénardier and apologize for my part in her father's death. I grew so agitated that the nurse actually sent her a letter just to keep me from worsening my injury. Mademoiselle Thénardier, well, she came to see me."  

"I see," Javert said. He aimed for neutrality and was uncertain if he succeeded. Judging by the way Moreau winced, he doubted that he had. "So you wished to apologize to her, although you were only fulfilling your duties in apprehending her father, a wanted criminal, and even though the man had stabbed you--"

Moreau laughed weakly, and then winced once more. His hand hovered over his side but did not press down. "She said something like that, monsieur, though a bit more colorfully. Then she told me of the money Monsieur Pontmercy gave her, and we discussed what she might do with it. Among, among other things. Did you know she grew up in Montfermeil? Before her parents turned to a life of crime, they owned an inn."

A memory stirred, of Monsieur and Madame Thénardier's guileless stares as they assured him that there had been a misunderstanding, that the child had gone off with her grandfather, and that they had no idea who this Jean Valjean was that Javert described.

Javert frowned, resisted the urge to tug at his whiskers. The fact that the Thénardiers had fooled him so thoroughly still rankled even years later.  "Yes, I was aware of that, though the inn was not exactly respectable," he said. He raised an eyebrow. Moreau was still avoiding his eyes. Perhaps he was waiting for Javert to scold him for becoming so closely acquainted with a criminal's daughter. Javert pursed his lips, uncertain if the emotion he felt was amusement or exasperation, for he would be very much the hypocrite if he rebuked Moreau. Rather grudgingly, he broached the subject with a brusque, "So you and Mademoiselle Thénardier are--"

"Friends," Moreau said earnestly. He finally looked at Javert, and Javert was amused to find that Moreau seemed sincere. Well, perhaps they were simply friends, at that. What did Javert know about friendships between young men and women? "And I think she will help us, monsieur. When she visited yesterday, she said that she wishes to escape her father's shadow."

"Then perhaps you will suggest she come see me at the station if she is interested in helping us," Javert said. 

"I will, monsieur. She said she'd try to come by for another visit in a few days," Moreau said. He winced, leaning back a little into his pillow. Some of the earlier color ebbed from his face. "Even if she does not, she might know someone willing to help. Bissette is not well-liked in the washhouse." 

Javert, watching how Moreau sank a little more against the pillow, nodded. "And perhaps by the time we have enough to catch Bissette and whomever he is working with, you will be well enough to assist in the arrest. Of course, that means you must have your rest. Speak to Mademoiselle Thénardier when she visits." 

"Yes, inspector," Moreau said, though the answer was made quietly, and his eyes were shut even before Javert turned away towards the door.  

 

* * *

 

“ _But the memory of the middle age is always weaker than that of our younger years,_ ” Javert read, and broke off to mutter under his breath, “Perhaps for Rousseau, but I have not found it so.” 

“I didn't catch the last sentence,” Valjean said. "Would you repeat it?" When Javert looked up from  _Reveries_ , he found that Valjean had paused in weeding and watched him with one eyebrow raised.

The tied ribbon that kept Valjean's ridiculous hat in place seemed half-undone, and Javert resisted the urge to tell him to retie the knot; Valjean would only test it and say it would hold for the rest of the morning's work and then be surprised later when the hat fell off. Instead Javert looked back down at the page. “ _But the memory of the middle age is always weaker than that of our younger years,_ ” he repeated, though judging by the way amusement had tinged Valjean’s expression, the other man had heard the disagreement he’d made under his breath. 

"Ah. I think that depends on what he means by weaker memory," Valjean said thoughtfully before Javert could continue to the next sentence. "If he means our memory of times past is weaker, then I must agree, for I find I cannot recall things from the past as well as I used to; but if he means our ability to remember current events is weaker, then I disagree."

Javert, who had grown used to such philosophical remarks over the course of _Reveries_ and knew Valjean did not necessarily expect a response, merely read on.

“ _I began by making the best I possibly could of these last. If the other do not come back with the same force, some impatient readers may grow tired; but for my part I shall not be sorry for my labor. I have only one thing to fear in this undertaking; it is not saying too much, or telling falsities; but it is not saying all, or being silent on truths._ ”

Here, Javert paused once more, and then read, striving to keep the pleased surprise from his voice, for he had been wondering what they would read after they were finished with  _Reveries_ , “ _End of the Fourth Book, and of-- and of the First Volume_. Ah, I did not realize there was a second volume. Surely there is a copy in the library. I shall fetch--”

"There is no second volume."

Javert, having closed the book and gotten halfway to his feet, stilled. He frowned at Valjean, uncertain if he had misheard. "But the book says--"

Valjean looked half-apologetic. "Did I not mention before? Rousseau died before he could complete the second volume." 

Javert stared for a moment as the words sunk in. Then he closed his eyes, exasperated. "Valjean," he said, and found he spoke through gritted teeth. "Do you mean to say we have been reading an unfinished book all this time?" 

"Yes."

" _Why_?” he demanded. “What is the point of reading, much less publishing, an unfinished book?" 

"To enjoy what Rousseau did write?" Valjean suggested, and had the audacity to sound entertained by Javert's aggravation. "I do not think the fact that it is incomplete diminishes its merits." 

"Bah," Javert said, waving a dismissive hand. When he opened his eyes, he found Valjean's mouth quivering, doubtlessly repressing a smile. "Perhaps," Javert suggested dryly, "we might choose for our next book something that is _actually_ complete?" 

"Perhaps that might be best," Valjean agreed, mock-solemn.

Javert pretended not to notice the way the corners of Valjean's mouth turned upwards and betrayed his amusement as Javert retreated into the house and had Yount show him to the library, which he learned was also considered Pontmercy's study for his law practice.

Whether one called the room a study or a library, the sight of so many books made Javert's head hurt. There were so many choices that it was almost dizzying. Despite this, he approached one of the shelves. Surely there would be _something_ readable there.  And, he thought with a grimace that earned a puzzled look from Yount before the other man left to presumably return _Reveries_ to Valjean’s chambers, something hopefully completed.

“Monsieur Javert?”

Javert turned to find Mademoiselle Gillenormand hovering in the room’s entryway. The woman wore a faintly apologetic air and a hesitant smile, as though she were the interloper rather than Javert. “Have you and Monsieur Fauchelevent finished your book, then?”

Javert did not quite stare at the unexpected question, but he found himself wondering how much the household discussed him and Valjean. “Yes, mademoiselle. I was just attempting to find something else to read.”

Mademoiselle Gillenormand’s expression shifted and turned as animated as he had ever seen her. Her smile widened and she even clapped her hands. “Oh, I know something that may suit you, monsieur! Schiller’s _The Robbers_.”

“Schiller’s _The Robbers_?” Javert repeated cautiously. “I don't recognize the name. What type of book is it?”

“Not a book, monsieur, a play.” Mademoiselle Gillenormand studied the shelf for a moment, her brow furrowing, and then selected a slim volume and offered it to him. She smiled almost imploringly at him as he slowly took it. “It is very engaging, I am told. I dislike reading, I freely admit that to you, monsieur, but this play-- Madame Bauchene, who attends Mass with me, told me all about it. It speaks on redemption and religion, of the terrible depths a man might sink to and yet still retain some semblance of virtue--”

“Ah,” Javert said, and felt his lips twist in a way that made Mademoiselle Gillenormand’s enthusiasm falter. He looked at the volume, thinking on-- well. He did not know if this subject matter would do anything but poke at old wounds and revisit old memories best left undisturbed. 

“I will make the suggestion and see what Monsieur Fauchelevent thinks,” he said politely, for the woman had made the suggestion in good faith. “Thank you, mademoiselle.”

“You’re welcome, monsieur,” said Mademoiselle Gillenormand a trifle uncertainly as he bowed and took his leave.

When Javert returned to the garden and approached Valjean’s vegetable patch, he hesitated a moment. He studied the volume in his hand, pondering how innocuous it appeared but how discomforting the content might be for both himself and Valjean.

Before he could think of what to say, Valjean looked up and said cheerfully, “Ah, so you’ve found something.” He squinted and Javert slowly turned the volume so that Valjean could read the title. “ _The Robbers_? What is it about?”

“I should think the title made that quite plain,” Javert muttered before he could think better of it, anxiety turning the words into a low grumble. Then he drummed his fingers upon the volume’s spine, frowning. “I did not choose it, precisely. Mademoiselle Gillenormand made the suggestion. I do not know if it is suitable, but I did not wish to dismiss her outright. If you do not wish to read it, I shall return the play at once and find something--”

“Why would it not be suitable? Is it too unfinished?” Valjean said with something like a teasing tone, cutting through Javert’s rambling. Whatever he saw in Javert’s expression muted the humor in his face. “What is it about?”

Javert cleared his throat. “Religion and redemption of a criminal, it seems.”

Valjean’s expression did not change, but a quiet, “Ah, I see,” escaped him. He brushed his dirt-stained hands upon his trousers and then extended one hand towards Javert. “May I?” When Javert gave him the volume, Valjean opened it and began to read.

Javert studied his expression but could no longer make any sense of it. He resisted the urge to fidget, but the mild look Valjean wore now reminded him too much of Madeleine, concealing all of his emotions behind a polite mask.

After a long moment, Valjean looked up. There was a faint smile that did not quite reach his eyes, but his voice was calm as he said, “If you are willing, I think we might at least make an attempt, if only because Mademoiselle Gillenormand might ask.”

“Very well,” Javert said slowly, though his stomach twisted uneasily. He took back the volume, and then resettled himself upon the bench. He opened the volume to the preface. As Valjean bent back to the task of weeding, Javert began to read, the words spoken slowly and hesitantly despite Valjean’s reassurances.

“ _The picture of a great, misguided soul, endowed with every gift of excellence; yet lost in spite of all its gifts! Unbridled passions and bad companionship corrupt his heart, urge him on from crime to crime, until at last he stands at the head of a band of murderers, heaps horror upon horror, and plunges from precipice to precipice into the lowest depths of despair. Great and majestic in misfortune, by misfortune reclaimed, and led back to the paths of virtue…_.” 

He trailed off, frowning. He darted a glance at Valjean but could not see his expression, for Valjean was turned away, crouched over one of the weeds that had somehow crept into the garden. Javert studied Valjean, looking for tension in his frame that might reveal any displeasure or discomfort. There seemed to be none, and yet Javert’s stomach remained unsettled.

“Perhaps another book,” he said slowly. He closed the volume. “I do not think my voice is suited for reading a play.” He attempted to laugh, but it came out an uncomfortable snort. “I shall attempt the voices if you wish, but I think it will sound foolish.” He cleared his throat. “Why don’t we go to the study together and select something?”

Valjean rose to his feet. Now he turned, though the mild look had shifted to one Javert still could not name. He untied his hat and set it down on the bench next to Javert and wiped his hands on his trousers until his skin was mostly free of dirt. Looking at the dark stains, Javert wondered whether Valjean's clothing drove his laundress to despair or exasperation.

“Perhaps we could find something more suitable together,” Valjean agreed.

Together, they retraced the path to the study. Thankfully Mademoiselle Gillenormand had not remained there, and Pontmercy apparently had nothing to draw him into work, for the study was empty of everything save the books and Pontmercy's desk and chair when Javert and Valjean entered.

“Is there anything in particular you are interested in reading?” Valjean asked, moving to stand in front of one of the bookcases and eye the selection.

“Something that is finished, and something that does not require me to act out scenes,” Javert said dryly. He replaced _The Robbers_ on the shelf. Then he examined a few of the books currently at eye-level. Nothing seemed to leap out as suitable, but then, Javert mostly read books on law. What did he know of popular literature? 

He pursed his lips. Most of his uneasiness had gone with Valjean’s agreement to choose another book, but now, as he had before Mademoiselle Gillenormand had made her suggestion, he found there were too many choices. He rubbed his hand against his jaw and then ran his fingers across the spine of one book. Perhaps _Hans of Iceland_ might be entertaining enough. He pulled it from the shelf, but a moment’s purview convinced him it would not appeal-- it was some sensational novel complete with murder and mayhem. 

He glanced over at Valjean to see if the other man had had more luck, but Valjean was frowning thoughtfully at a bookshelf. Even as Javert watched, Valjean made to pull a book from the shelf and then paused, and with a shake of his head resumed studying the selection before him.

When he looked back towards his own shelf, Javert’s gaze fell upon another book, the title leaping out at him. His lips drew back in a victorious smile. “Aha!” he exclaimed, reaching for the book. “I found a book on gardening. Have you read _The Botanic Garden_ by Darwin? Oh, it seems to be a long poem, but surely something on gardening will suit us both, and perhaps there will be some--” The words stuck in his throat as he read the opening lines. He felt his face grow hot. This was not poetry, this was-- “I was mistaken,” he said, hearing too late the catch in his voice. He made to thrust the book back onto the bookshelf; his movements were too hasty, for the book struck the spine of another with a loud thump.

“Javert, your face is red,” Valjean said, half-amused, half-concerned. Before Javert could stop him, Valjean took the volume from his hands and opened it. “It surely cannot--” He stopped, his lips parting in surprise, and Javert watched as he too flushed, even the tips of his ears turning scarlet.

Javert knew all too well what had made Valjean blush, for part of the opening stanza seemed imprinted upon the back of his eyelids every time he blinked.

“ _STAY YOUR RUDE STEPS! whose throbbing breasts infold_  
      _The legion-fiends of Glory, or of Gold!_  
      _Stay! whose false lips seductive simpers part,_  
      _While Cunning nestles in the harlot-heart!—”_

When Valjean continued to stare at the book, apparently frozen in place, Javert snatched the book back. This time he successfully returned it to the shelf. “I told you it was not suitable,” he muttered. He fought back the warmth from his face and forced himself to reach for another book as he added, “Though I cannot imagine why Monsieur Gillenormand would have  _that_  in his library.”  

“Perhaps he too thought it was a book on gardening and did not realize his mistake,” Valjean suggested, though this was said doubtfully, his cheeks still pink. He turned and all but snatched a book off the nearest shelf. “This one looks acceptable,” he said, though Javert was fairly certain he had not so much as looked at the title.

Javert glanced at the book Valjean held. “ _Don Quixote_ ,” he read. The name did not so much as ring a bell, for good or ill, but he set aside the book he'd taken from the shelf and took the one from Valjean's hand. Surely it could not be a worse choice than  _The Botanic Garden_. Then his eyes narrowed. “Valjean, it is the first volume. If this is another repeat of  _Reveries_ , I shall....” He opened the book and read, “ _The life and exploits of the ingenious gentleman Don Quixote--_  there seem to be two volumes.”

“And here is the second,” said Valjean, pointing at the shelf with an amused twitch of his lips. The flush was leaving his face slowly. "It must be finished then."

Javert flipped a few pages further into the volume and silently read a few lines. "It seems entertaining enough," he said. "And at least it does not immediately speak of, ah-- I think it will be suitable." 

Back at the garden patch, Javert resettled himself upon the bench. He watched as Valjean retied the hat's ribbon beneath his chin, this time a tighter knot than before. It was only once Valjean turned back to the weeds that Javert opened the volume and turned to the author's preface. 

_"Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would this book, as it is the child of my brain, were the fairest, gayest, and cleverest that could be imagined. But I could not counteract Nature's law that everything shall beget its like; and what, then, could this sterile, illtilled wit of mine beget but the story of a dry, shrivelled, whimsical offspring, full of thoughts of all sorts and such as never came into any other imagination...."_

 

* * *

 

When the break came in the Bissette case halfway a week into July, brought about through both Azelma and the police's efforts, Javert had expected to feel satisfied. Instead unease gnawed at his stomach.  

In six days, as long as everything went smoothly, both Bissette and his supplier would be under arrest and a shipment of contraband seized. Laurent had taken to strutting around the station-house as though the arrests had already been made, and Moreau, still confined to his hospital bed for another week and a half, had all but cheered when told the news. Even Azelma had smiled a small, fierce smile when she had presented the last piece in the puzzle. 

And yet Javert's disquiet persisted. The morning after they had unraveled how and when Bissette was smuggling in the contraband, Javert did not go to Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6. If he had thought he could avoid discussing the Bissette case, he might have gone, but he knew he would not evade the topic. Javert could guess easily how the visit would go, for he and Valjean had fallen into a pattern of sorts. Valjean would tend the garden, Javert would read from  _Don Quixote,_  and they would both ask after the other's day and exchange stories and anecdotes. 

Today, though, if Valjean asked, the news about the Bissette case would stick in Javert's throat. Then Javert would have to endure Valjean's curious looks, for doubtless Valjean would wonder at his sudden silence. Besides, Javert told himself, had he not been visiting Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 every day for the past few weeks? Surely that was, well-- he still knew little of friendship, but surely friends did not spend _every_ available moment together. He had made no promises to visit Valjean every single day. 

Javert spent that morning doing paperwork on the case, explaining how the investigation had proceeded and writing down as much as detail as possible-- while leaving the Pontmercy name completely out of it. 

The morning after that, he completed paperwork on a handful of other cases that, while not outright neglected, had certainly not been his focus for the past few weeks. He briefly considered sending a note to the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire to tell Valjean not expect him for some time, but decided against it. Besides, it was not as though Javert helped Valjean weed the garden or performed any task that someone else could not do just as easily. And Cosette's voice would be far more pleasing to the ear if she read the book to Valjean instead. No, Valjean would not miss his absence for a few days. 

On the third day, he found himself at a loss. There was no more paperwork to busy himself with, and even tidying his room took only a half-hour at the most. He tried to read one of the law books on his shelf but couldn't concentrate upon the pages. Attempting to read only made him think of that moment in the study, how Valjean had flushed as he'd read the scandalous opening of that poem. 

Javert wondered what might have had happened if he had taken back the volume and read the poem aloud, let his mouth and tongue voice the words that had so flustered them both. Even Valjean’s ears had turned red, Javert remembered. If Javert had recited the poem, would that blush have crept down Valjean’s throat and disappeared beneath his cravat? Would Valjean have hushed him, or, and here Javert swallowed thickly, would Valjean have looked at him with a similar warmth to that moment in the garden and urged him on?

The window was open, and yet the room still seemed stifling, the air thick and difficult to breathe. Javert paced his room as though he could outrun something he must admit, if only to himself, was desire. Then, for fear of wearing a hole in his carpet and invoking the portress's wrath, he walked the street outside. The latter effort only succeeded in making him hot and irritated when he had to change into a fresh cravat and shirt. And had time always moved so slowly? Javert found himself marveling at how the hours seemed to creep along as leisurely as a snail might. He continually checked his watch, only to discover that mere minutes had passed and that it was still hours before his shift. It was enough to drive a man mad. He found himself all but fleeing to the station a full hour early just to escape the quiet of his apartment. 

He had just finished a late breakfast and begun to contemplate a trip to the tobacconist's on the fourth morning when someone knocked upon his door. When Javert opened it, expecting his portress or perhaps someone from the station, one of the female servants from Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 stood there instead. 

He barely concealed a start, remembering belatedly that he had given Valjean his address, though Valjean had never visited. In truth, Javert was glad for it; even he could admit that his room was uninviting. Valjean would only look at the small, sparse room with its bookshelf of law texts and frown.

"Monsieur Javert?" she asked, drawing Javert's thoughts away from Valjean. When he nodded in acknowledgment, the woman did not bother to conceal her curiosity, peering past him into his bedroom. Her probing gaze took in everything, from his neatly made bed, to his closed armoire, to the empty plate on his desk. She looked almost disappointed when her gaze finally returned to him; he wondered what she had been expecting. "I have a message for you from Monsieur Fauchelevent."

She offered the note to him, her expression shifting to an expectant look. "I'll wait for an answer," she added, when he did not immediately move to take the note. "Well," she corrected herself with a quick, high laugh, "Monsieur Fauchelevent did not say he _expected_ one, but it seemed to me as though he hoped for a response...."

Her prattle trailed off as he silently accepted the paper and unfolded it. The note was short and unsigned, asking only for Javert to send word with Victoire if he should find his next visit further delayed. Javert read over the words again, searching for some hidden meaning and finding none. It seemed that Valjean had assumed that Javert was busy with work; it was not an unfounded assumption, for Javert had told Valjean that he'd hoped for a break in the Bissette case any day now. 

"I assume you are Victoire," he said without looking away from the note.

"Yes, monsieur inspector, though Monsieur and Mademoiselle Gillenormand call me Nicolette. But doubtless you know that Monsieur Fauchelevent, Monsieur le Baron, and Madame la Baronne insist on calling us by our real names." She paused, and when he briefly raised his gaze to see what had caused the constant flow of words to be checked, she was smiling warmly at him. "Yount told me that you do the same as well if you're told our names." She gave a quick shrug of her shoulders. "To be sure, monsieur, it is not a hardship to be called Nicolette by Monsieur Gillenormand. It is a pretty enough name, and old men do have their little quirks, but it does get a trifle confusing when he insists on calling _all_ of the female servants by the same name! At least Yount is Basque and Michel is--" 

Javert did not quite stare at her in disbelief as she nattered on, but it was a very near thing. Could Valjean have not sent him one of the _quieter_ servants? Javert pursed his lips as he turned the note over in his hands. He chose his next words carefully, keeping his gaze upon the note. "Inform Monsieur Fauchelevent that I will visit tomorrow morning at the usual time." 

"Yes, monsieur inspector!" she said brightly. There was a pause, and he could feel the press of the woman's gaze, though he did not look up. "Is that all?" 

"I should think that answers his question," Javert said, but he scowled at the note. Surely there was no hidden meaning behind Valjean's query on when Javert would next visit, and yet. And yet. Javert remembered that night after the fall of the barricade, how Valjean had stood outside Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7 and told him where Javert could find him if he'd…. How had Valjean worded it? Javert struggled for a moment, for some of their exchange that night was clearer and easier to recall than the rest.

"If you have need of me," he said at last, under his breath, remembering. This time he ignored Victoire's curious look. He turned the note over again in his hands. A year ago, Valjean had not sought him out when Javert had left the Rue de l'Homme Arme and returned to the police. Even a month ago, it had been Cosette who had gone to the station-house in search of him.

"Monsieur?" Victoire asked, somewhat hesitant now.

He blinked, realizing he had been frowning at the note and had not yet dismissed the woman. When he looked up, Victoire wore an uncertain look, her eyes fixed upon his face.

"Perhaps I _should_ send a note," he said. "One moment."

"Yes, monsieur."

Once at his desk with a blank piece of paper before him, however, Javert found himself hunting for words. After a moment, he took up his pen and wrote slowly, _I will be there at the usual time tomorrow._ Then he paused, frowning. The words were serviceable, and yet somehow inadequate. He threw the paper away, ignoring the prickling sensation on the back of his neck that meant Victoire watched, and took up a fresh sheet.

_I trust Victoire will tell you that I plan to be at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6 at the usual time tomorrow. I have been distracted by the Bissette case._

_-Javert_

Javert frowned. He was not in the practice of writing personal letters, and yet still the letter seemed stiff and awkward and still somehow lacking. Certainly Valjean's note had been brief, but then, Valjean had not owed him an explanation, as Javert now owed him. Javert ran a hand over his jaw and resisted the urge to drum his fingers against the desk in frustration even as he took up his pen once more. 

_I trust Victoire will tell you that I plan to be at Rue des Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6 at the usual time tomorrow. I have been distracted by the Bissette case._

- _Javert_

_P.S. I apologize if my absence caused any concern. I do not doubt that Victoire will tell you all that she observed and put your mind at ease that I am not hiding another injury._

He read it over, still dissatisfied, but uncertain how he could improve it. Once the ink had dried, he folded the letter. "Here," he said, offering it to Victoire before he could dither for another few minutes.

"Thank you, monsieur," she said. She paused, some emotion he could not name flickering across her face, and then added quickly, "I am certain Monsieur Fauchelevent will be glad to hear from you."

Javert stared; she flushed a little at the long, incredulous look and perhaps regretted speaking out of turn. Still, it was an almost pleasing thought, that Valjean had noticed his absence enough that even the servants commented on it. Almost pleasing, in that he inwardly winced. He had half-talked himself into abandoning Valjean, this despite his promise to Cosette and his own desire to remain in Valjean's company. He thought of Valjean's drawn expression when Javert had paced before the apartment and snarled about souls and Valjean's stricken look when he had been told of Thénardier’s death. He bit back a grimace. Would he always bumble about like a fool when it came to Valjean?

Javert cleared his throat and said, "My shift begins at noon. If Monsieur Fauchelevent wishes to send another note, you will be able to find me at the station-house."

"Yes, monsieur," said Victoire, looking somewhat subdued. She dropped a brief curtsy and was gone, hurrying down the hall even as he closed the door.

He ran his fingers over his whiskers in thought, frowning. The letter was still unsatisfactory, even now that it was in Victoire's hands and could not be fiddled with further. Besides which, he could not imagine what else he might have added. A true apology and an explanation would be better face-to-face, in any case. He shook his head at last and reached for his hat. A walk to the tobacconist and some fresh air might help clarify his thoughts and might even help him to think on how he would speak to Valjean of the Bissette case. 

Setting his hat firmly upon his head, he took hold of his cane and left the cramped confines of his room.  

 

* * *

 

Javert walked the garden path slowly. He was not meandering, for each step took him further into the garden and closer to Valjean's vegetable patch, but every step he took was almost cautious. The garden was quiet this morning, with no birdsong and no breeze to rustle the branches of the trees. Every footstep seemed too loud in his ears, as though he was stomping his way through the garden. 

Still, the volume of his steps must have been only in his imagination, for Valjean did not hear him approach. Javert paused for a moment, watching. Valjean had donned his workman's clothes, his coat folded neatly upon the bench. His wide-brimmed hat was fixed once more upon his head, bobbing as Valjean knelt and took hold of a weed. He wrested the weed's roots free from the earth. His sleeves, Javert noticed with a frown, were still rolled down to his wrists. Had he suffered once more in the heat these past few days, uncomfortable with his bare arms if Javert was not there to alert him to unexpected company?

The thought made his frown deepen. "Valjean," he said, aiming for soft but again feeling as though he had spoken too loudly. 

Valjean did not startle, though his shoulders briefly tensed and then just as swiftly relaxed. "Good morning," he said, turning a little on his knees to look over his shoulder and offer a small, welcoming smile. There was no wariness in his expression. If he was curious as to why Javert had not visited for so many days, Valjean did not let it touch his features. "You have good timing," Valjean added. His smile widened. "Some of the vegetables have sprouted." 

For a moment Javert forgot the unease clawing at his stomach. "Those are not all weeds?" he said, squinting at the plants whose varying colors leaped out at him from the dark soil. He squatted down next to Valjean and reached out a gloved hand to touch one of the plants. "I cannot tell the difference," he said after a moment, "except that I suppose the plants that seem to form an orderly line are the ones we planted." 

"That is a good guess, but you can also tell by the shape of the leaves," Valjean said, holding up the weed he had just pulled. "You see?"

"Ah," said Javert, looking doubtfully at the weed. Upon first or even second glance, it did not seem so different from a few of the plants in the orderly row. He shrugged. "Still, I think I will leave the weeding to you." 

"Very well," Valjean said agreeably. He placed the plant in a small pile of uprooted weeds Javert had not noticed before. "Though I think you do yourself too little credit. I am certain many of the seeds you planted and claimed would die are now sprouting." He reached out and took hold of another weed, his elbow bumping lightly against Javert's arm. 

Javert twitched a little in surprise; he hadn't realized how close he was to Valjean. Only a scant few inches separated them. His earlier unease returned, his mouth going dry. He took in a deep breath, attempted to organize his thoughts. He took off his hat, turned it over in his hands, quick, nervous movements. He fixed his gaze upon his hat, did not quite dare to look over at Valjean as he began his speech. "I owe you an apology," he said slowly, and from the corner of his eye caught Valjean's sudden stillness. 

"An apology?" There was confusion in Valjean's voice.  

"I should have sent word of my absence after the first day." 

"Javert," Valjean said. The confusion was giving way to caution. "Did you--? My note was not meant as a rebuke for your absence." 

"I did not take it as such," Javert assured him quickly. "But it was...thoughtless of me not to tell you I would not visit for so much time."

Valjean said nothing for a moment, and when Javert darted a brief, sideways glance, he found that Valjean knelt there unmoving, not quite looking towards him, another weed apparently forgotten in his hand. "You had mentioned during your last visit your belief that the Bissette case would soon be resolved," Valjean said slowly. "When you did not return the next day, I assumed that was the reason and that you found yourself too busy with the arrest and the paperwork to visit." He paused. "My note.... I meant only...." 

"I did not take it as a rebuke," Javert said again when Valjean trailed off. He turned his hat over in his hands once more, frowning down at it. Already the conversation was going badly. He cleared his throat. When he spoke once more, each word was said awkwardly and slowly. "Only a reminder that I--" He stopped. All of his carefully thought out words seemed to have fallen out of his head entirely. He said, "Your daughter and I spoke once, of my, ah, disappearance after the barricades last year, and I assured her that I would not do so again. I believe that my unexplained absence might, well--" He found himself shrugging, a half-smile twisting his lips. "Your daughter might have some stern words for me." 

There was silence for a moment, the heavy pressure of it making Javert want to brace his shoulders against the weight and twist the brim of his hat into an unrecognizable shape. With effort, he kept his hands and shoulders still as Valjean said, "She does not. Cosette knows you were busy with the Bissette case." 

"Ah," said Javert when Valjean paused once more. "Good. And doubtless Victoire assured you I was unharmed." 

"She did," Valjean said.

"Doubtless she told you that and more," Javert said, allowing a bit of dryness to enter his voice. "She was quite, ah, talkative when she delivered your note." Despite the anxiety still twisting his stomach, a small snort escaped him. "And she had an eye that would put some of the sergeants I work with to shame. I suspect she could have told you the color of my curtains if you'd asked." 

Valjean did not answer. When Javert looked towards him, there was a small, worried crease between Valjean's eyes and his mouth was a straight, unsmiling line. "Victoire did mention you seemed somewhat tired." 

Javert's momentary humor vanished. He had studied his features in the small mirror of his room that morning and splashed cold water upon his face until his face had no longer looked swollen from lack of sleep, but he knew there were still marks of weariness on his face if one knew to look for them. His grip tightened on his hat before he forced his fingers to relax. "The Bissette case has been...difficult," he said. "With Azelma's help, we have discovered how he smuggles things in and out of the city, and where and when the exchanges occur. We shall catch him in the act tomorrow night and capture most if not all of his organization." 

"You do not sound entirely satisfied," Valjean said slowly. There was still that furrowed crease. "Do you expect danger?" His gaze lowered, and for a moment Javert did not understand. Then he realized that Valjean's thoughts had turned to Javert's attempted arrest of Thénardier, and that he was remembering the new scar on Javert's leg. 

The scar did not ache, precisely, and yet Javert found himself resisting the urge to press his fingers to his trousers where the small raised lines were concealed beneath the fabric. He frowned and shook his head. "There might be trouble, but I will have the men and the means to put a stop to any foolishness," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "More to the point, I suspect that Bissette will surrender as soon as he hears the word arrest. He does not seem like the type to fight." 

"And yet." 

Javert would ruin his hat if he was not careful. He set it to the side upon the grass, and then gave up his knees to the dirt, kneeling rather than crouching beside Valjean. He could feel Valjean's gaze upon him, though after his quiet remark Valjean did not press Javert for more. "And yet," he agreed, his mouth twisting a little into something like a grimace. 

Silence fell again, thickening the air until it was difficult to breathe, much less speak. 

"The factory closed, after your arrest." 

The words were sharp and jagged in Javert's throat, like shattered glass. This hadn't been in the speech he had attempted to prepare. He had forgotten his speech, but he remembered that much. He had not intended to speak of Montreuil-sur-Mer at all and certainly not of Valjean's arrest. He fixed his gaze upon the pile of weeds as he said, "I do not know if you knew, if word reached you in--" 'Toulon' choked him, he could not say it. "Well. It took...surprisingly little time after your arrest for the factory to be declared bankrupt. The prosperity the town so enjoyed-- it vanished as though it had never been." 

He paused, but Valjean said nothing. "I have done some research into what will happen to the washhouse once Bissette is arrested. His son has no interest in the business, you see, and would likely wish to sell it. However…however, the washhouse is of such a size that none of Bissette's competitors could afford to purchase it. I suspect the son will close the washhouse and sell the building--" 

His throat tightened again. He thought of Valjean as Madeleine, how he had turned his house into a hospital for the poor, how he had opened up a school for the children, and how he had supported other struggling businesses in the town and nearby areas. All that effort, all Valjean's philanthropy, utterly destroyed after his arrest. What had happened to all the men and women who had labored in those workrooms? Where were the children now who had once dogged Madeleine's heels, begging for every last coin from his pockets? Javert could not recall any of their faces. The images of Azelma and the other washerwomen rose in his vision instead, their worn, weary faces as they bent at the wash tubs silent accusations. 

He rubbed at his forehead, but the images did not fade. "It must be done, of course, Bissette's arrest," he said. "He is not-- he is not you. He breaks the law for his own gain, not to help others. And yet, once he is gone, his workers will...." A mirthless laugh escaped him. "I didn't worry about these things before, you know. It was all so simple. If someone broke the law, they were a criminal, they had to be arrested and serve their time. What did I care if the criminal left behind a wife and children who would starve without the sous he earned each week? If the woman was honest, she would find work. If not, well, the law would see to her as well. But now--"

He stopped. A sigh escaped him. He took up one of the weeds, began to pull the leaves off of it, one by one. "It was easier, before," he muttered. Guilt was an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders.  

"Javert."

Valjean's voice was quiet, and yet Javert found himself repressing a flinch as though Valjean had shouted. He forced himself to look towards Valjean at last, found that Valjean was watching him, his eyes steady upon Javert's face. For a moment they only watched each other, Javert trying to pick out the various emotions upon Valjean's mien. At last he gave up the attempt, for all he could discern was a thankful absence of pity. 

"To do the right thing, I have found, is rarely easy," Valjean said. He paused. His tongue flashed pink as he ran it over his lips. His hands rested on his knees; they were tense but still. "When you told me of Champthieu, I did not immediately decide to tell the truth and offer myself up to the court's justice. I thought of the factory workers, of the town, of my responsibilities. I half-convinced myself that I should let the poor man go to jail in my place, that my work as the mayor was too important. What was one man's life versus the continued success of Montreuil-sur-Mer? And yet I could not…." He paused. His head bowed briefly, his hat concealing his expression. "And yet I could not let an innocent man suffer in my place." 

"Do you ever...?" Javert began, and then trailed off, uncertain of what he was asking. 

"Do I sometimes wonder if I made the wrong decision, if I should have kept silent and remained Madeleine? Yes. When I heard how the factory had closed, I thought-- but, Javert, doubt is...it is something we all must learn to live with. There is a quotation, I remember, from one of my books. 'Count no man happy until he is dead.'" Something must have flashed across Javert's face at that, for in the next second a small smile of reassurance touched Valjean's lips and warmed his eyes. "I did not say I agree. I am..." He paused. A pale flush touched his face. "That is, I think that we will always be in doubt about our choices and will always wonder if we have made mistakes until we are dead and granted clarity." 

Here, Valjean paused. His smile faded. He said, gently, "But Javert, you cannot hold yourself responsible for the fates of Bissette's workers."

"Just as you do not hold yourself responsible for the fates of those in Montreuil-sur-Mer, I suppose," Javert said.  

He had not intended it as a rebuke, but Valjean winced. 

Above their heads, something skittered across a branch. Javert looked up, but saw nothing save for the rustling leaves. Still the world, which had narrowed down to him and Valjean and the vegetable patch, expanded once more to encompass the house and the rest of Paris. Javert realized that he still held the stripped stem of the weed and had been turning it around and around in his hands; he let the stem drop back onto the pile. He rubbed his hands upon his trousers. Some of the weight had eased from his shoulders-- not all, but he found it somewhat easier to breathe.  

"Well," he said briskly after a moment, when the silence had begun to stretch too long, "as we discuss things we cannot change, the weeds are doubtlessly strangling the plants. Let us save them." He paused and doubtfully studied the patch. "Just tell me which are the weeds and which the vegetables, if you will." 

Amusement crept slowly into Valjean's face and remained there, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "It is all in the leaves," he explained. He picked up one of the leaves that Javert had plucked from its stem, cupped it in one hand. Their elbows brushed once more. Javert took in a careful breath and did not move, even as Valjean spread one of the leaves of a still-rooted plant carefully upon his other palm and offered both leaves for inspection. "Look. See the differences in the shape? And if you touch them, you will find that the texture is different as well." 

Javert bent his head carefully over Valjean's hands. With the leaves placed side by side, Javert thought he could see the difference between the two. He took off his gloves, set them aside. When he rubbed the leaves with his thumb, he found they did feel dissimilar. The weed's leaf was waxy, while the plant's, whichever vegetable it was, was fuzzy, almost like a peach. And yet he found himself distracted from his examination by the dirt on Valjean's hands, how it colored the lines and small scars in ways spilled paint or ink might have also defined them. One could trace the lines of Valjean's hand if he wished. 

It wasn't until Valjean let out a quiet, unsteady breath that Javert realized he was doing precisely that, running his finger absently up one of Valjean's deeper lines, towards the thinner flesh between his pointing finger and his thumb, the leaf wholly forgotten. Javert did not quite snatch his hand away as though burned, but it was a very near thing. His finger stilled upon the curve of the line. Heat flooded his cheeks and warmed his stomach in what was becoming an unsettlingly familiar sensation. He quelled the mad urge to scramble upright and make his apologies, for Valjean had not protested or made any attempt to pull his hand away.

Instead Javert plucked the weed's leaf from Valjean's hand and held it up. He examined it closely, buying a moment until the impulse to flee had passed.

He ran his tongue across dry lips. "They do feel different," he said, then cleared his throat. "And I think I see the difference, though I will ask you when I am uncertain, to be safe." 

"Very well," Valjean said agreeably enough. When Javert darted a glance at him, he found Valjean's face flushed as well but bearing a contemplative look. It was not, Javert was grateful to note, Madeleine's polite mask, but wholly Valjean's thoughtful expression. After a few seconds, Valjean reached for another weed and asked, "Is Sergeant Moreau still at the hospital? I imagine that he wishes he could be part of the arrest."

"He will miss it, but the doctors say that barring any relapse, he'll be able to return to desk duty in a few days," Javert said, retreating to the safety of idle conversation. He pulled a face, earning an amused sound that was not quite a laugh from Valjean as he added, "Instead I will have to make do with Laurent and Dubois."

The conversation turned then to what had occurred both at the station-house and the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire No. 6 during Javert's absence. Javert let the description of Cosette and Pontmercy's plans for the latter's birthday celebration go in one ear and out the other, enjoying instead the unfeigned happiness in Valjean's voice. As Valjean's words washed over him, Javert bent to the task of weeding. He touched each plant gently, grew to recognize the waxy feel of a weed versus the fuzziness of a vegetable. Despite his attempt to concentrate upon the task, however, his thoughts drifted from time to time, remembering the feel of Valjean's hand beneath his.

They had come to the end of one row. Javert reached for the first plant of the next row and felt the waxy leaves of the weed. He gripped the base of the plant, but before he could upend the roots, Valjean's hand encircled his wrist.

Javert froze, his lips parting in surprise, though nothing escaped his lips, neither a sharp exhale nor a word of protest. His startled heartbeat fluttered against Valjean's fingertips, his world narrowing once more, now to the rough texture of Valjean's calluses, the warmth of his skin, the gentle firmness of his touch. 

It might have been a second or an hour later that Valjean released him, his hand dropping to his side. Valjean's fingers drummed out a nervous beat against his hip. "Ah, Javert, I only meant to-- that is not a weed." This was said almost apologetically. Valjean's other hand rose and rubbed at his jaw as he added, "If you were weeding based on simply the feel of the leaves, you will confuse the weeds with the beets. If you look again at the shape of the leaves, you will see which is which."

"I see," Javert said. He looked down at his wrist and studied it for a moment, but Valjean hadn't gripped him tightly enough to leave a mark. He realized that Valjean was watching, his contemplative look shifted to something new, something Javert did not recognize but made him wish, suddenly, that the house was not so close, the possibility of Cosette and Pontmercy coming upon them not so large, and that he had the time and some privacy to better comprehend his bewildered thoughts.

Javert hastily leaned towards the next plant, studying the leaves with an intensity they did not deserve. After an initial inspection, however, he frowned again and looked harder, setting aside his bemusement to focus on the task at hand. "The leaves do not seem all that different to me," he protested.   

"Look closer," Valjean said. There was an unfamiliar note in his voice that made Javert almost flush again. "The shapes are similar, but not the same."

"It is strange," Javert said with a shake of his head. "How can something useless be so easily be mistaken for something useful?"

Valjean was quiet. When Javert turned towards him, he found Valjean wearing a strange, faint smile, his expression distant. Even as Javert turned, however, the distance vanished and Valjean shook his head. "The weeds are not useless," he said. "I will use them as compost. Instead of harming the vegetables, the weeds will help to ensure their growth." He paused and then added, "Everything has a purpose."

Javert raised his eyebrows, not quite skeptical, but wondering at the unfamiliar smile Valjean had worn and what had amused him so. He pursed his lips, looked again at the plants. "Whether they do or do not, I cannot see the difference," he said. "I think I will admit defeat and go and fetch  _Don Quixote_ , if you do not mind."

Valjean smiled again, but this was a familiar turn of his lips. "Not at all. I have been wondering how his latest adventure would go." 

Javert, halfway to his feet, paused at Valjean's words. His stomach twisted once more, this time with guilt. He should have known that Valjean would wait rather than have Cosette read the next few chapters to him. Javert rose to his feet, clasping his hands behind his back. "I am sorry to have made you wait," he muttered, regretting his earlier foolishness. Before Valjean could protest that he had not minded waiting, Javert added, "Never mind. Let me get the volume, and we will see where his madness has led him now."

"Very well," Valjean said once more.

Javert turned then and forced his arms once more against his chest. He paced towards the house, wondering if he was only imagining the light pressure of Valjean's gaze upon his back until the path curved and he was out of range. Once he was out of Valjean's line of sight, he gave in to the temptation to touch his wrist with light fingers and trace the spots where the warmth of Valjean's hand still seemed to linger. He frowned down at his wrist. Had Valjean ever gripped him so before? Perhaps at the parapet--

But no, he corrected himself, that had not been at all similar. Upon the parapet, Valjean's grip had felt like a shackle chaining Javert to life. Now Javert had wanted the moment to last, had, he realized slowly, felt a pang of regret when Valjean had pulled away.

His steps faltered at the last thought. Alone and unobserved on the path, he raised his hand and scrubbed it across his face. He didn't quite wish to dispel the realization but nevertheless it unsettled him. It was one thing to admit to desire in the safety of his own apartment, far away from Valjean. It was quite another to contemplate it when Valjean was so near, when there might have been an answering warmth in Valjean's eyes if Javert had dared to look.

"No matter," he muttered at last, and shook himself like a dog shaking off a flea. The moment had passed, and if there  _had_ been heat in Valjean's gaze and a new tone to his voice, there was still the fact that Valjean had released him and apologized.

Javert resumed his stride towards the house, folding his arms firmly against his chest and forcing his chin up so that he walked straight despite the thoughts crowding his mind and making him almost dizzy. 

He shook his head once more, sharply, to clear his head. Surely they could let the matter rest for the moment. They had time. 


	6. The Bewilderment of Imperfect Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a year and a half of writing this behemoth, please enjoy the conclusion of _my heart lies buried_ , just in time for the anniversary of Javert's derailment. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the story!
> 
> Thanks go out to a few people: first and foremost, my amazing beta ailelie, without whom this story would not have been half as good. She kept me on the right track, endured my constant "but I want the story to be _done_ " whining, and helped me every step of the way. 
> 
> Secondly, to my miseres friends, who offered encouragement, historical fact-checking, and advice on characterization and certain lines, and who are just overall great people. Everyone's been helpful at some point, but my brain is terrible and I've forgotten half of the contributions individuals have made. Still, you guys are amazing. Thanks so much for your support and friendship.
> 
> And now without further ado, enjoy the final chapter!

Javert dipped his pen into the inkwell, and found the inkwell dry. He blinked in surprise, and then fought back the exhaustion which weighed down his eyelids and made them want to remain shut. He examined the inkwell, frowning. Hadn't it been full when he had begun to write his report on the Bissette case? 

Raising his head, he glanced towards the window and realized that it was mid-afternoon. It had been only two hours past dawn when he had sat down at his desk to write his final report of the case, carefully omitting all references to the Pontmercy family and focusing on how the search for the fugitive Thénardier had led the police to Bissette's washhouse where Thénardier’s daughter worked, and that Bissette's suspicious behavior during that investigation had brought him to the police's attention.

At least the report would be almost the opposite of his final report on Thénardier, he thought with some satisfaction. Bissette and his fellow smugglers had nearly unanimously surrendered once they'd realized that they were caught. Two had attempted to run, but Dubois had caught the first with an enthusiastic lunge and a sharp-eyed officer by the name of Thibault had captured the second with a quick sweep of his cane. There had been no major injuries; even Thibault's smuggler had only suffered a bruise or two.  

Javert shook out his hand, which had cramped upon his realization of how long he had been writing. Then he considered the report. The greater part of it was done, but he had yet to write his suggestions for commendations. Dubois and Thibault had each earned one, certainly, but even at his most irritating Laurent had proved diligent and useful. And no money had been mislaid this time, Javert thought with a twist of his lips. Also, there was the matter of Azelma. She should receive something for her aid, especially since her efforts had possibly cost her position, with the washhouse likely to close.

He frowned at the thought. Perhaps he would rest just a moment before he fetched more ink. Javert started to stretch and then stopped, wincing, at the loud creaking protest from his spine. He reached for the pitcher of water instead, intending to pour himself a glass.   

"Inspector!" 

Javert sighed. He let his hand drop from the pitcher's handle. "Yes, Laurent," he said. He didn't bother to disguise his exhausted irritation but, as was his want, Laurent seemed not to notice Javert's temper, smiling at him. In fact, Laurent seemed almost overcome with good humor, all but bouncing on his heels as he came to stand before Javert's desk. 

"I just heard the good news, monsieur!" 

"The good news?" 

"The news of Bissette's washhouse, of course," Laurent said, and then smiled that idiotic grin of his once more. 

Javert stared. He wished that he had gotten to drink some water before Laurent had come in. Perhaps that might have cleared some of the weary fog from his mind. He couldn't understand Laurent and his nonsense at all. He said, slowly, "The news of Bissette's washhouse? Laurent, you were there when we arrested the man. Did you take a blow to your head while I was working on the report and forget?"

"No, no, monsieur, the _purchase_  of the washhouse!" 

Javert gave in to the temptation to rub at his forehead, which had begun to ache. "Laurent, I have heard nothing of the purchase of the washhouse," he said. Then the words actually sank in and he straightened, something like hope fluttering in his stomach. "Wait. Do you mean to tell me that someone has bought it and intends to keep it open?" 

Laurent's enthusiasm had given way to confusion as Javert spoke. He answered cautiously. "Well, yes, monsieur, but did he not discuss the purchase with you? I thought you and Monsieur Pontmercy were friends." 

Javert stared. "What has Monsieur Pontmercy...?" he began and then stopped. Suspicion turned his hands into fists where they rested upon the desk. "Did Monsieur Pontmercy--"

"He purchased the washhouse this morning, monsieur," said Laurent. He blinked, something like astonishment in his eyes. "Did you not suggest it to him?"  

"No," Javert said. The word came out flat. He did not know what look was on his face, but whatever was in his expression made Laurent lean away from the desk and stammer out an, "I am sorry, monsieur, I assumed--"

"And that is why you are still a sergeant and not yet an inspector, Laurent. You assume too much and leap to conclusions too easily," Javert snapped. "Now, if you are quite finished, I need to complete the Bissette report and give it to Monsieur le Prefect."

"Yes, monsieur," Laurent said, drooping a little, his smile completely fled. He slunk to the door and closed it behind him with a click that somehow managed to sound apologetic.

Javert stared at the door for a long moment. His thoughts moved almost sluggishly, his mounting frustration making it difficult to think. So Valjean had used Pontmercy's name to purchase the washhouse. He had not mentioned that plan to Javert. If he had, Javert would have-- he would have--

"So he will buy the washhouse and absolve me of my guilt," he said into the silence. He smiled without humor. "I wonder what he will do the next time I have to arrest someone. Open up his house to their family, I suppose." Anger soured the words on his tongue. He drank some water, but it did no good. The bitterness remained in his mouth through his completion of the report, his meal that a groveling Laurent brought to him, and his verbal report to Gisquet. The taste lingered even as he hailed a cab and directed the driver to the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire.

"Monsieur Javert," Yount said at the gate. His expression was a mixture of puzzlement and mild alarm before it smoothed into a polite, albeit somewhat baffled look. He opened the gate, adding, "I am sorry, monsieur. M. Fauchelevent did not say to expect you. Dinner has just been served, shall I--"

"I need to speak with Monsieur Fauchelevent privately." The words came out harsher than he'd intended, and Javert grimaced as Yount's expression turned wooden. He cleared his throat. It took some effort to keep his tone polite as he said, "Excuse me. I assure you that the conversation will be brief and then he can return to his meal."

Yount's expression remained stiff. He said only, "Yes, monsieur. If you will step inside so that I can close the gate, I will speak to Monsieur Fauchelevent."

Javert clasped his hands behind his back; he did not pace, though he was tempted. Instead he swallowed down the sour taste still in his mouth and tried to prepare something to say to Valjean that wouldn't be as harsh as he had just been with Yount. He had only just begun to compose something when Yount returned with Valjean.

"Javert," Valjean said. He wore a half-pleased, half-hesitant smile, one which dimmed when Javert turned towards him. Valjean stopped a few feet away, and looked back at him for a few seconds. His gaze moved up and down Javert's frame, apparently taking in his lack of injury as well as his ill-humor. Then Valjean said, "Thank you, Yount." His tone was kind but firm, a gentle dismissal.

Once Yount had entered the house and was out of earshot, Javert cleared his throat.

"Javert," Valjean said, raising a supplicating hand. "Obviously you have heard about Marius purchasing the washhouse. If you will let me explain--"

"Let you explain what, precisely? That you apparently bought the washhouse to absolve me of guilt?" Javert snapped, but Valjean didn't flinch at the accusation, only frowned and shook his head.

"That was not anyone's intention. I mentioned to Cosette your concern that the washhouse would close and the workers lose their jobs. She--"

"Do not tell me that it was your _daughter's_  idea to buy the washhouse!" Javert said, and only realized that he had shouted when the words rang through the courtyard. Quieter, but no less fiercely, he said, "What does your daughter know of business? This has the mark of--" He stopped before he could say Madeleine, clenched his teeth until the urge had passed. Instead he asked sourly, "And does your daughter imagine herself a businesswoman, then?"  

"Not at all, inspector! I am afraid my convent education did not teach me much of business. A little of history and music, something of geography and art, but very little else. Perhaps some of the housekeeping and mathematics I learned will prove useful, but not much else! Still, with Papa's assistance, I thought I might try my hand at it. Why should I not spend my and Marius's money to help Mademoiselle Thénardier and the other women keep their positions?" 

Javert hadn't heard Cosette approach. He now found his view of Valjean suddenly impeded by her figure. She wore a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. She said, the light tone belying the warning glint in her eyes, "Marius shall have his law practice, and I shall have my washhouse."

Javert's frustration ebbed, replaced by uncertainty and the creeping suspicion that he had made a misstep. He looked between Cosette and Valjean, who both smiled at him, though Cosette's still did not reach her eyes. Javert tried to take some comfort in the fact that Valjean's smile seemed genuine and contained no trace of hurt. Belatedly, he tipped his hat to Cosette and muttered, "Excuse me, madame. I had thought--"

"You thought it was my father's idea. Yes, I heard as much. I suspect the entire household did," Cosette said. She planted her hands on her hips and smiled all the more fiercely at him. "But I assure you, it was  _my_ idea."

"I asked her to wait and let me speak with you first," Valjean said mildly. 

"But I was too impatient," Cosette said with no trace of apology in her voice. "If you must scold anyone, monsieur, scold me. Papa told me to wait and ask your opinion on the matter, for he felt you might have some objection. It seems that he was right about this upsetting you, though I cannot think why!"

Javert cleared his throat. "I thought--" He paused and recalled his earlier rebuke of Laurent for leaping to conclusions too quickly; he repressed a rueful grimace at his own hypocrisy. He forced away the embarrassed warmth that wanted to heat his face and cleared his throat once more. "I had assumed the purchase of the washhouse was for other reasons, madame, but I see that I was wrong." He bowed, stiffly, and didn't dare look at Valjean as he muttered, "I am sorry."  

He straightened and then froze in astonishment as Cosette patted his arm and then took his elbow with light, firm fingers. Her smile was warm now, her gaze almost teasing as she said, "I am certain that Papa has already forgiven you, and so I shall forgive you as well, inspector." Softer, in a voice only Javert could hear, she murmured, "Although I will take it badly if you speak to him in such a way again." Before he could respond or mutter another apology, she said at a more natural volume, "Now, monsieur, I have had some thoughts regarding the washhouse. I remembered those awful men leering at the women, and wondered if we might install some guards there to afford the good women some privacy. Come, let us discuss the matter inside over dinner! I am certain you must be hungry after such an eventful day."

"I, ah." As Cosette tugged at his arm, attempting to lead him towards the house, Javert looked helplessly towards Valjean. The other man was no help, the corners of his eyes crinkling in poorly hidden amusement. Javert shook his head. "Madame, I had some supper at the station-house, I do not think--"

"Then at least sit with me and discuss the idea of the guards, inspector," said Cosette, speaking over him as though he had made no objections. She wrinkled her nose and added, "I confess, I do not know where to start looking. I suppose policemen work too many long hours to wish for a second position."

Javert found himself led gently but firmly towards the house. He could hear Valjean's quiet footfalls behind them and suspected that Valjean was following closely behind and smiling at their backs. He cleared his throat a third time. "Well, as for guards, madame, I do have a thought on that. Many policemen upon retirement find that the pension that the government provides is not enough to live upon comfortably. I thought--"

He paused, for there was a small crease in Cosette's forehead that had not been there a minute before, one that reminded him of Valjean's worried looks. After a puzzled second, he thought he knew her concern. He waved his free hand. "I will be fine myself, for I have had no family to support and so have managed to save a decent amount of my pay, but I have heard of others struggling. If you wish, I shall speak to Monsieur Chabouillet. Before he retired, he was secretary to several Prefects of Police. He should have recommendations of decent men who would suit your purpose. I shall call upon him tomorrow, if you like."

"Thank you, inspector," Cosette said. She laughed, a clear, ringing sound. "See, Papa? I told thee that Monsieur Javert would know exactly what to do about the guards!" At last her hand slipped from Javert's arm, as though now that she was reassured he would come and stay a while she felt no need to haul him inside.

Javert slowed his pace until he and Valjean walked side by side, shoulders not quite touching. As Cosette mused aloud on whether Monsieur Chabouillet might know what a decent wage would be for the guards, Javert studied Valjean from the corner of his eye.

Valjean did not seem to have taken Javert's foolish scolding to heart, wearing a small, easy smile and walking with an unburdened step, his expression fond as he watched Cosette speak.

Still, Javert wetted his lips and muttered, "I was an ass. I am sorry."

Valjean turned a little towards him at that. "I am sorry you heard the news from someone else. I had intended to tell you myself tomorrow. I hadn't thought that the news would travel so quickly." He hesitated, and then added slowly, "However, even if we had spoken before Cosette bought the washhouse, I would have argued for the purchase. I think it will be a good thing."

Javert managed a snort. "Well, so long as she does not insist upon purchasing every business I must shut down," he said, but his words did not have the bitterness of before. 

"Do not worry, monsieur inspector, the washhouse will keep me busy enough!" Cosette said, turning to smile at them. A thoughtful look crossed her face. "Although...Papa told me how he created three schools before-- well, I thought perhaps we might do the same. To think, Papa created a school for infants. I am certain many of the washerwomen would appreciate such a thing!" 

Javert listened to Cosette's words with a growing sense of incredulous amusement and something else, some warmer sentiment he could not name. Would she turn the street upon which Bisette's washhouse stood into a second, smaller Montreuil-sur-Mer? He barked out a quiet laugh. "Careful, madame," he said. "You will earn your husband a place as a député at this rate." 

Cosette only smiled and ushered them both into the house. 

 

* * *

 

Javert ran a hand down his coat, feeling absurdly self-conscious without his usual coat as he waited for Yount to announce his arrival to the birthday celebration. He rolled his shoulders against the unfamiliar tight stricture of his evening coat, missing the more familiar weight. Instead he wore a wool coat five years out of fashion. The clothing-seller had claimed the blue shade suited him, though when he had studied himself in her mirror he had detected no change in his appearance. It had only been the understanding that he must have _something_  to wear and the looming date of the party that had convinced him to hand over his money for the coat, waistcoat, and trousers the woman had pressed upon him.

He glanced down at his waistcoat, frowning. She had called the shade oxblood. Admittedly he had never seen an ox's blood, but he did not think it would be this particular red shade.

"Monsieur Javert," announced Yount as he opened the doors to the ballroom. Somehow, despite the music and laughter that immediately washed over Javert, the man's voice rose over the tumult without seeming to shout.

Javert's hand dropped away from his coat and he stepped past Yount into the room. He was suddenly aware of how much lower this collar was than the one upon his greatcoat or even his summer coat, how exposed his features and therefore his expression was to onlookers. He fixed a polite smile upon his face and endured the curious looks. He did not see Valjean anywhere in the crowd of strangers.  

"Monsieur Javert! We had been wondering when you would arrive!"

Cosette swept over to him in a rustle of fabric, the crowd wordlessly parting for her. _She_  certainly had not gone to a clothing-seller, Javert thought at the sight of the delicate gold flowers stitched into her pale blue dress.

He bowed over her outstretched hand, feeling vaguely ridiculous as he did so. And yet it was strange not to be posted as a guard outside the party but rather greeted as a close friend of the family; the experience felt even odder to him than his new coat. "Good evening, madame."

"Good evening, inspector! I am sorry Marius is not here to greet you, but he insisted on droning on about law. I have exiled him to the music room until he becomes interesting again," Cosette announced with a laugh. Her eyes twinkled with merriment, a happy flush coloring her face. She placed one hand upon her hip and pursed her lips. "Will you coax Papa from his hiding place? He danced me once around the room and then retreated to a corner."  

"I doubt I will be much assistance in that regard, madame," Javert said, somewhat dryly. "I had intended to do something similar once I had expressed my congratulations to your husband." Still, Javert found his gaze seeking out the corners of the room, searching for Valjean. At last he spotted a familiar figure seated in the far corner, holding what appeared to be a plate of food. Even as Javert watched, Valjean rose to his feet, set the plate down, and began to make his way through the crowd. It too parted for him, though more slowly than it had for Cosette.

"Javert," Valjean said, emerging at last from the crowd. He wore a welcoming smile, bright and pleased.

Javert's breath caught a little in his throat. A few weeks earlier, Valjean had mentioned diffidently that Cosette had forced him to go to a tailor and be fitted for evening wear. Javert had not given it much thought, except perhaps to snort at the idea of Valjean looking as the dandies did with their corsets, padded shoulders, and curled hair.

He had not considered that Valjean would look like this, elegant in a way that even Madeleine had failed to achieve. The green coat was cut in the latest fashion, though without any padded shoulders and chest, for with Valjean's frame there was no need for such frivolities. Indeed, the coat accentuated the strength of his arms, the broad span of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest. The gold vest, decorated with a paler gold stitch of flowers that seemed similar to the ones upon Cosette's dress, lent a certain warmth and softness to Valjean's face.

Looking at him, Javert marveled how different Valjean seemed than the ill and wasted man Javert had found that June morning in the antechamber of Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7. Had it really been such a short time ago?  

"Well, Monsieur Javert! It seems you have coaxed Papa from his corner after all," Cosette said, her pleased laugh loud and merry in his ears.

Belatedly, Javert realized he had not returned Valjean's greeting and had instead gaped at him like a ninny. He snapped his mouth shut, his face warming. He wished again for the high collars of his other coats, certain that his face was flushed. He attempted to greet Valjean, but it seemed wrong to address the other man as Monsieur Fauchelevent when he looked so; the false name would not come to his lips. "So it seems," he managed at last. “However, with your pardon, madame, I think I shall retreat with him back to his corner,” he added, and was briefly distracted by the creases at the corners of Valjean’s eyes that deepened as Valjean smiled.  

“Oh no, monsieur!” Cosette said. Javert drew his gaze away from Valjean long enough to watch the young woman pout. “You will do no such thing.” She clapped her hands together. “Dance with me, monsieur, while Papa brings Marius out of exile. We shall discuss how well your guards are faring at the washhouse."

Javert blinked. He couldn’t decide which misconception to address first, that he wished to dance or that the men were his. He shook his head even as Valjean looked amused. "Ah, they are not _my_  guards. Each man was suggested by Monsieur Chabouillet. And I do not know much of dancing--"

"Monsieur Chabouillet would not have made the suggestions if you hadn't sought him out. And surely you can be no worse at dancing than Papa, and _he_  did not stomp upon my feet," Cosette said, as though that settled matters. She smiled at Valjean, her expression managing to be at once both teasing and hopeful. "Papa, will thou please fetch Marius from the music room? Tell him his exile is over."

"Of course, my dear," Valjean said, smiling back. He looked charmed rather than offended by her remark on his lack of dancing skills.

And so somehow Javert found himself in the middle of the dance floor, one of Cosette’s gloved hands in his and her cheerful voice in his ears. He glanced down, but it seemed at least Cosette had taken his words to heart and was keeping her feet well out of stomping range.

“...and then Monsieur Allard threw the man into the street and threatened to call the law upon him!” Cosette said, and Javert forced his attention away from their feet. “The women were quite impressed.”

“I, ah, am glad Monsieur Allard is proving suitable.” Nevertheless, Javert frowned. “Has there been much trouble? I had hoped that the gawkers would have given up by now.”

“Only that one man proved particularly troublesome,” Cosette assured him. “Monsieur Firmin says he has noticed a crowd of men who walk by each morning but don't linger. He suspects they hope that I will tire of paying guards to preserve the women’s modesty and will eventually dismiss the men.”

“They will be disappointed,” Javert said.

He had meant it only as acknowledgment of her strong will, but Cosette laughed and looked delighted, as though he had offered her a compliment. “Well, they will have to learn to live with their disappointment, monsieur.”

The song’s tempo changed, suddenly, and for a few seconds Javert concentrated on not tripping over his own feet. When he looked back up from the floor, he found Cosette’s expression had changed, become tentative, as though she was unsure of what to say. “Is something the matter, madame?” he asked when she continued to look at him rather than speak.

She shook her head at that, her expression clearing. One corner of her mouth creased, as Valjean’s did when he was trying not to laugh. “Not at all, monsieur. I was simply thinking how glad I am you are here to keep Papa company.” The remark was said lightly, and yet she looked at him half-searchingly, as though there was some hidden meaning to her words.

“I,” Javert said, his mouth dry, uncertain of how to answer her and of what she wanted from him. He looked up as a loud voice hailed him.

“Monsieur Javert!” Gillenormand, still clad in his incroyable clothing, waved at him from a cushioned chair as they passed. The old man was beaming; next to him, her hands folded in her lap, Mademoiselle Gillenormand smiled a vague, polite smile at Javert. “It is good to see you!”

“And you as well, monsieur,” Javert said automatically. Then they were stepping back into the crowd of dancers and Gillenormand was lost to sight. He blinked, returning his focus to Cosette. He had not thought of how to answer even when the moment’s delay. He hesitated, finding it was his turn to dither. “I am...glad to be here, madame,” he said. He thought of Valjean in his green and gold, the healthy color in Valjean’s face, and added, haltingly, “Your father looks very well today.”

“The tailor and I told him the gold and green suited him,” Cosette said, her expression now one of quiet satisfaction. “He didn't believe us, but you can see that it is true.”

“Yes,” Javert said, relaxing a little, for it seemed he had responded correctly. Still, he was grateful when the music began to slow. He looked up, realizing that a few of the dancers were moving off the dance floor. “Ah, the dance is ending.”

“And you have not stepped on a single toe.” Cosette dimpled at him. “You and Papa are too critical of yourselves.” She glanced over his shoulder. Her expression warmed in a way that meant she had caught sight of her husband. “Oh, if you will, monsieur, there are Papa and Marius. Shall we?”

Pontmercy smiled at Cosette as they approached. “I will speak no more of law tonight,” he said at once, tone apologetic. He pressed a hand to his heart as Cosette raised an eyebrow and looked gently disbelieving. “Or at least I shall promise not to speak of it within your hearing.”

“Very well,” Cosette said graciously, and took her husband’s arm. “Now, I believe Monsieur Javert wished to say something to you.”

It took Javert a few seconds to realize what she meant. “Ah, yes. Happy birthday, monsieur.”  

Pontmercy looked absurdly pleased by Javert’s words. “Thank you, monsieur! Cosette and I are so happy you could come.” He chuckled, suddenly. “As Father is, I’m certain.”

Before Javert could react to that particular remark, Cosette’s eyes suddenly widened. Surprise and then satisfaction flashed across her face. “Oh good,” she said, smiling past Javert. “It seems that Monsieur Moreau and Mademoiselle Thénardier have arrived. He had said that he had the doctor’s permission, but I had worried his side might still be troubling him too much to attend….”

Surely Javert had misheard, he thought, even as Yount’s voice rang out over the crowd, announcing Monsieur Moreau and Mademoiselle Thénardier to the party.

“You...invited Moreau and Mademoiselle Thénardier, madame?” he said slowly. He did not quite dare to turn and watch Moreau and Azelma approach.

“Well, yes,” Cosette said, tilting her head at him. “Did I not mention that Mademoiselle Thénardier is now my assistant at the washhouse? She keeps me apprised of the needs of the women as an ambassador of sorts. I admit she had some misgivings about attending the party, but once she learned that I had invited Monsieur Moreau as well, she agreed--” Cosette paused and called, raising her hand in greeting, “Monsieur Moreau! Mademoiselle Thénardier!”

“Madame Pontmercy, Monsieur Pontmercy,” answered Moreau’s familiar voice. “Happy birthday, monsieur.” There was a momentary pause, and then Moreau coughed and said, embarrassment creeping into his voice and replacing some of the politeness, “Ah, good day, Monsieur Javert….”

“Monsieur Moreau, Mademoiselle Thénardier,” Javert said. He kept his tone carefully noncommittal as he turned to face the sergeant.

Moreau wore a sheepish smile, color high upon his cheeks as he met Javert’s gaze. “I had meant to inform you of Madame Pontmercy’s invitation, inspector,” he said. “But it never seemed the time, especially when I needed to catch up on paperwork….” He trailed off, flushing still more scarlet, and seemed to waver between leaning more heavily upon his cane or upon Azelma’s arm.

Azelma, for her part, looked half-defiant in her dress, with her hair pulled into loops and knots. “Good evening, messieurs, madame,” she said, lifting her chin a little as she did so. She spoke carefully; Javert recognized an effort to sound more refined when he heard one. Her gaze passed over Valjean without pausing, and then settled briefly upon Javert and seemed to dare him to comment at her and Moreau’s presence. When Javert said nothing, she nodded towards Pontmercy, her expression softening a little. “Happy birthday, monsieur. Thank you for inviting me and Gérard.”

Javert opened his mouth to ask who Gérard was before he realized she meant Moreau. He closed it as Pontmercy said cheerfully, apparently feeling more kindly disposed to Moreau when the sergeant had a girl on his arm, “Thank you both for coming. I am glad your injury is healing so quickly, monsieur.”

The musicians began to play a light, airy tune. Both Cosette and Azelma glanced towards the musicians, Azelma’s expression guarded but something wistful in her eyes, Cosette’s delighted.

“Marius, you must dance this with me,” Cosette declared, tugging at her husband’s arm. “We have not danced in ages!”

Judging by Valjean’s amused smile, ages meant a mere half-hour or so, Javert thought even as Marius smiled and said, “You are right. Shall we?”

“And perhaps Mademoiselle Thénardier would like to dance as well,” Cosette said, apparently having noticed Azelma’s reaction. Then she frowned in dismay. “Although perhaps your injury prevents you, monsieur?”

Moreau’s face fell. “The doctor did say I was not to dance and strain myself,” he admitted slowly. He glanced sidelong at Azelma. “But perhaps one dance will not--”

“No, no, monsieur, we will not have you disobeying the doctor,” Cosette said briskly. “Papa or Monsieur Javert will dance with Mademoiselle Thénardier.”

“Ah, my dear, I do not think--”

“Cosette, perhaps you should ask--”

“Madame Pontmercy, I don’t need--”

“I think one dance will be--”

Valjean, Pontmercy, Azelma, and Moreau all stopped mid-sentence as Cosette laughed at them.

Javert, meanwhile, had watched how heavily Moreau leaned on his cane. He recalled Moreau’s earnestness upon his hospital bed, insisting that he and Azelma were friends. One corner of Javert’s mouth twitched, something like laughter catching in his throat; he smoothed his expression into a polite look as he offered Azelma a half-bow. “Shall we dance, mademoiselle?” 

Even as Moreau stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment, Azelma’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. She gave him an appraising look. “Very well, monsieur,” she said, offering him her hand.

“But--”

With Moreau’s faint protest trailing off behind them, Javert found himself on the dance floor for a second time. He was certain he’d never heard this tune in his life; he moved his feet awkwardly, not so much dancing as avoiding Azelma’s feet.

Azelma, he noted without surprise, didn't seem to know the dance either, surreptitiously studying Cosette and Pontmercy as they went by and then attempting to mimic Cosette’s movements.

“Well, mademoiselle,” he said. Her gaze darted back towards him. “I didn't realize you and Sergeant Moreau had kept up your, ah, acquaintanceship.”

“Yes.”

It was rather impressive how much belligerence could be conveyed in a single word, Javert mused as he and Azelma moved in a slow turn. He was regretting his momentary fit of devilry. If it had been strange to dance with Valjean’s daughter, it was stranger still to dance with Thénardier’s.

For a moment, he only studied her. She had spent some of Pontmercy’s thousand francs upon food, it seemed. Her face had lost much of its gauntness, her dark hair beginning to have a healthy shine.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Javert said. He realized that perhaps he should have worded it better when Azelma flushed and looked furious. “That is to say, congratulations on your promotion at the washhouse.”   

“Oh,” said Azelma. The color in her face was slower to leave than it was to appear, leaving pale pink splotches upon her cheeks. She studied his expression as though to gauge his sincerity. “Thank you.”

They danced in silence for a few seconds, and then Azelma asked suddenly, a trace of the old defiance in her voice, “What will you say to Gérard about me?”

Javert frowned, puzzled. “Mademoiselle, I don't understand the question. What can I tell him that he does not already know? He _did_  help to arrest you and your family at the Gorbeau House, after all.” This last sentence was said slowly. He hesitated to mention the Gorbeau House, although by now it was apparent she would keep her promise to keep silent about ‘Monsieur Fauchelevent.’

Azelma astonished him by laughing, a loud, rough sound that had heads turning to see what was so amusing. “No, no, inspector. Did you forget? Gérard arrested me himself,” she said, and looked almost pretty as she smiled.

“I see. So the first time you met, he arrested you; the second time, your father stabbed him,” Javert said. He found his mouth twitching a little at the absurdity. “I would call it a strange relationship, but...” He paused and found himself looking across the crowd and searching for a familiar white head. “...I have known stranger,” he concluded.

A gleam of curiosity lit Azelma’s eyes at that, but when he did not elaborate, she did not press for details.

They danced the rest of the piece together, both trying hard not to step on the other’s feet or knock into any of the other dancers. When the music began to slow, Javert maneuvered them back the way they had come.

During the dance, Valjean had apparently found Moreau a chair; the young man sat there stiffly, his cane resting against its legs. As the final note trailed off into silence, Javert set Azelma before Moreau, and then offered her another half-bow.

“Javert,” Valjean said. Javert turned to find that the corner of Valjean’s mouth was turned up in amusement. Still, there was a look in his eyes that unsettled Javert. “The sergeant has been telling me about your sudden transformation.”

“My sudden transformation,” Javert said blankly. “And what transformation would that be, precisely?”  

Moreau winced. “Ah, well, monsieur, I happened to mention how you are the inspector we sergeants go to for advice. When Monsieur Fauchelevent seemed struck by this, I told him how you changed after the insurrection--” Javert’s expression must have shifted then, for Moreau winced again.

“Javert,” Valjean said. When Javert dared to look at him, he wished he hadn’t, for the look in Valjean’s eyes, his warm regard, was even more flustering now that Javert knew the reason for it. “Don't fault the good sergeant for answering my questions.”

“I am sorry if I spoke out of turn, monsieur,” Moreau said.

“Never mind, Moreau,” Javert said dryly, wishing Valjean would stop looking at him so. It was distracting. He waved a dismissive hand. “It is only that Monsieur Fauchelevent insists on thinking the best of me. Your words will only strengthen his delusions.” He ignored Moreau and Azelma’s puzzled looks as Cosette laughed.

“He is teasing you, Monsieur Moreau,” Cosette said.

If anything, Moreau looked even more baffled, as though Javert making a joke that wasn't at a criminal’s expense was an impossible concept to grasp. “Ah, I see.”

“I’ll get you some food, Gérard,” Azelma said abruptly. Moreau blinked at her. “You like…” She paused, and then actually glanced in the direction of the food tables. Her eyes widened a little, and whatever else she had been about to say turned into a surprised little sound.

Javert hadn't looked towards the food tables, but, remembering the breakfast and dinner he had eaten at the Rue des Filles-Calvaire, he was certain the abundance and variety was overwhelming.

“There is an entire table devoted to sweets,” Pontmercy said cheerfully as Azelma stared towards the tables. “You cannot go wrong with dessert.”

“There are some apple tarts you might enjoy,” Cosette suggested with a smile. She reached out and patted Valjean’s arm. “Papa, it was so kind of thee to talk with Monsieur Moreau while the rest of us danced. Thou may retreat to thy corner with Monsieur Javert now.” This last sentence was said as magnanimously as when she had allowed Pontmercy back into her presence.

“Very well, my dear,” Valjean said, smiling back. “Perhaps Monsieur Javert and I will visit the food tables ourselves.” He nodded politely towards Moreau and Azelma. “Monsieur Moreau, Mademoiselle Thénardier.”

“Monsieur Fauchelevent,” Moreau said with an answering nod.

Javert and Valjean had taken about a half-dozen steps towards the food tables before Javert muttered, “Stop.”

“Stop what?” Valjean asked, feigning innocence.

“Stop smiling as though you are imagining me playing mentor to the sergeants at the station-house.”

Valjean’s throat-clearing sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh. “How could I not? Monsieur Moreau was quite detailed in his description--” He stopped when Javert half-scowled at him, though his small smile didn’t fade.  

A servant was winding his way through the crowd bearing a champagne tray. Javert noted automatically that he was unfamiliar; the man must have been hired for the party. He took two glasses and passed one to Valjean.

“Thank you,” Valjean said. He lifted the glass to his lips.

Javert turned his gaze away before he could grow distracted by how Valjean swallowed the champagne. He took a quick sip of his own drink. It was sweet and bubbly upon his tongue, an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation.

The food tables were filled with such a variety that Javert found himself at a loss. He glanced at Valjean and noticed Valjean too seemed daunted by all the choices, frowning in mild consternation at the tables.

“Well. I am told that one cannot go wrong with dessert,” Javert said facetiously. “Though perhaps we should not start our meal with it.”

“Perhaps,” Valjean agreed. “I sampled some of the appetizers earlier, but I believe that table holds the entrées.” He gestured carefully with his champagne glass.

A few minutes later found Javert and Valjean both seated in the far corner of the room, attempting to balance their plates upon their knees and not drop their glasses. Silence fell, but it was not, Javert thought, an uncomfortable one. One might have called it companionable. He sipped more of his champagne and then looked over as Valjean spoke.

“Cosette spoke with you about the guards. Did she mention the plans for the school?”

Javert shook his head. “No. She mentioned the possibility of a school when she first purchased the washhouse, but then said nothing more about it.”

“Ah, well,” Valjean said, and smiled. “It seems there is a building near the washhouse that has been empty for years. I have had a look at it, and I think it will make an excellent school. Cosette plans to purchase it. After we have cleaned it up and found one or two teachers, the women will be able to leave their younger children there.”

Valjean leaned forward, his expression alight with enthusiasm, one hand rising to excitedly trace the shape of the building in the air. “It is a small building with only three rooms, but that will be fine. We have already done a survey of the washerwomen, and need enough space for thirty infants, fifty if Cosette wishes to hire more workers. I had thought to use the largest room for the classroom, and another for--”

“Careful,” Javert said, and reached out to steady Valjean’s plate. His hand pressed against the side of Valjean’s knee; even though the fabric of the trousers, Javert could feel the heat from Valjean’s skin. He fought down a flush as Valjean stilled beneath his hand. “Ah, your plate was about to spill,” he explained. Then, assured that the plate was steady once more, he took his hand away and seized his champagne. He downed one swallow to compose himself, then a second, and then, as he made to gulp down a third, realized that he had finished his drink. He looked up from the empty glass to find Valjean watching him.

Valjean’s enthusiasm had been muted by embarrassment. His mouth twisted, his smile turning crooked. “I’m sorry. I am perhaps too excited about the school,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “We can talk of something else-- did I tell you the beets are almost ready for harvest?”

Javert wished that the corner was somewhat more private, that people did not walk within earshot every few seconds, and that he did not have to watch his words so carefully. He thought almost longingly of the relative privacy of the garden as he cleared his throat. “You don't need to apologize or change the subject. I am...happy to hear about the school.” He cleared his throat again, and wished for more champagne to wet his tight throat and dry lips. “It is...good to see you so excited about the project. I remember--” He lowered his voice as two women, laughing arm in arm, swept by. “I remember that you built two schools and improved the third, before.” The final word was awkward on his tongue, heavy with the weight of years of history.

“Yes,” Valjean said slowly. “I did. Ignorance breeds misery, and education is the surest way to instill knowledge and banish ignorance. But we do not need to discuss this--”

“Please.” The request scratched at his throat and earned him a half-wondering look from Valjean. “It is-- that is to say--” He stopped, frustrated with himself and at his inability to say that Valjean deserved this measure of happiness and satisfaction, that perhaps this project might put the ghost of Montreuil-sur-Mer somewhat to rest, without the words sounding absurdly sentimental.

Javert’s fumble for words nevertheless had an unexpected effect upon Valjean; Valjean smiled. It was a small, tentative twist of his lips, but it warmed Javert nonetheless, eased some of his frustration.

“Very well,” Valjean said quietly, the smile slowly reaching his eyes. “In M-- before, when we had a school for infants, we found….” As he spoke, his voice regained its previous enthusiasm. He began to sketch out the plans for the school in the air once more, his movements now more careful but no less keen.

Javert listened, though he was more engrossed by the unfeigned excitement playing across Valjean’s features, the openness of his movements and gestures, than in the actual details of the school. There was none of the reservation of Madeleine in Valjean’s face now, nor any of the diffidence Valjean might have worn even two months ago. Javert took the wine a servant offered with a muttered thank-you, unable to look away from Valjean.

When Valjean’s speech finally slowed and then stopped, Javert blinked, belatedly noticing the way his eyes ached from staring too long and fixedly. He ducked his face back behind his wine glass, made to take a sip and realized that he must have been drinking the wine absently, for there was only a mouthful left. “How will you find a teacher?” he asked.

“I had thought to ask the priest of Saint-Jacquesdu-Haut-Pas. He and I are in agreement on the importance of universal education, and I thought he might know of a willing and suitable teacher.”

“Perhaps you should have a library for them as well,” Javert suggested. “You have found a purpose for two of the three rooms, you said, so why not a library? So long as you do not include _The Botanic Garden_ \--” He stopped, flushing at his own words and wondering when he had grown so loose tongued. He looked reproachfully at his empty wine glass.

"Ah, yes, perhaps not that book," Valjean said quietly. When Javert dared to look at him, he was doing that faint half-smile that meant he was trying not to laugh, his cheeks pink. "But a library is a good thought."  

"Well," Javert muttered, and fidgeted instead with his plate of food. Obviously the alcohol had gone to his head-- he didn't drink more than a glass of wine from time to time with his evening meals, and it seemed having wine on top of champagne set his tongue to wagging like a fool.

He had just decided to forgo more alcohol for the rest of the night when a servant approached with another champagne tray. "Monsieur Gillenormand is about to toast," the man said, offering them a fresh glass.

Javert resisted the urge to sigh, exasperated. He couldn't very well refuse to toast Pontmercy, he supposed. He reluctantly accepted a glass. He would simply have to be more careful with this one.

"To Marius's health and happiness!" Gillenormand called out over the crowd. Javert couldn't see him, but he imagined Gillenormand on his feet, holding his champagne glass aloft and beaming in Pontmercy and Cosette's direction.

After nearly everyone had cheered, Javert not adding his voice to the tumult but raising his glass and taking a small sip, Gillenormand continued, his toast turning into an impromptu speech. As Gillenormand spoke, Javert leaned over and whispered, “I suppose, having made you dance, your daughter is merciful enough to not expect a toast from you as well.”

Valjean blinked, looking as though the thought that he might be expected to make a toast to his son-in-law had never occurred to him. For a moment, he looked alarmed. Then his expression cleared and his shook his head. “No. Surely she would have warned me if I was meant to make a toast.”

“Besides,” Javert concluded dryly as Gillenormand’s voice washed over them, “I think Monsieur Gillenormand will speak enough for the both of you.”

Valjean’s lips twitched and he took a sip of his champagne. “And Cosette _did_  mention she would be performing a piece of music tonight. Have I mentioned she plays the organ and sings?”

The obvious pride in Valjean’s voice kept Javert from asking, even in jest, if she had any talent. For one thing, he knew Valjean would believe her a genius even if she were tone-deaf; for another, Javert suspected that Cosette’s determination would have made her practice until she was at the very least proficient. “You have not mentioned it before. Did the sisters at the convent teach her?”

“Yes. Cosette even played the harmonium at Mass a handful of times when Sister Isabella’s hands bothered her too much to play.”

Javert half-smiled at the image of Cosette, who must have been at the oldest thirteen, seated before a large church organ and playing for the nuns of Petit-Picpus. “I hope she is planning something a trifle less somber for her husband’s celebration,” he remarked.

Valjean chuckled. “She mentioned the name of the piece, but I know little of music, and she banished us all from the music-room while she practiced. Still, from what little I overheard, it seems a lively tune.”

Javert remembered his plate of food, still mostly untouched, and belatedly began to eat. “She is a woman of many talents,” he offered after a minute, both out of honesty and to keep the pleased look upon Valjean’s face for a little while longer. “Not only does she run a successful business and prepare a well-organized party, but she is a talented musician as well.”

Valjean said nothing, but his smile was answer enough.

When at last Gillenormand’s speech ended, Cosette’s cheerful voice rang through the hall. “Now that my husband’s virtues have been spoken of at such great length and with such eloquence, I shall not try to add anything more. Instead I will perform a musical piece in Marius’s honor.”

The tune was not one Javert had heard before, but between Cosette’s clear, bright singing voice and the high, crashing chords of the harmonium, it was pleasant enough. He leaned back in his chair, letting the sounds sweep over him, aware that beside him, Valjean was smiling broadly in Cosette’s direction and attempting to tap out the beat on his chair.

After that, the rest of the evening seemed to blur together, with seemingly endless music and food and speeches, for every half-hour or so Gillenormand would remember something else he wanted to say about his grandson and burst into another five-minute speech.

Valjean murmured, his voice sounding far away, “Javert.”

Javert opened his eyes, though it took some effort, for they were inclined to remain closed. He focused upon Valjean, who had at some point risen and was now half-bent over Javert’s chair. He blinked, squinting in surprise past Valjean’s shoulder to the mostly empty ballroom. Surely half of the party-goers had not left in one rush. Had he fallen asleep?  

“Javert.”

Javert blinked again. He pressed his palms to his eyes and tried to convince the fog to clear from his head. “I take it that the party is over.”

“Yes. Monsieur Moreau and Mademoiselle Thénardier said to tell you goodnight.” Valjean paused. When Javert looked at him, there was hesitance in his face, similar to the expression Cosette had worn as she and Javert had danced. Valjean cleared his throat. “It is very late. Cosette asked me to remind you that there are spare bedrooms if you wish to sleep here.”

“No, I should not impose on your daughter’s hospitality so,” Javert said with a slow shake of his head. He scrubbed his hand roughly over his face in another vain attempt to wake up, the better to make sense of Valjean’s strange hesitance. “I can take a cab--” He was interrupted by a yawn that made his jaw ache.

“And how will the driver take you falling asleep in his cab, I wonder,” Valjean murmured, the corners of his eyes crinkling once more. Then seriousness replaced the amusement. “At least let me see you safely home.”

Javert opened his mouth to argue that he could see himself to his apartment, and then paused, struck by Valjean’s request. It was so rare for Valjean to ask something of anyone. His lips twisted a little, imagining Valjean’s reaction to his small, cramped quarters, as different from the spacious rooms in the Rue des Filles-Calvaire and the Rue de l’Homme Arme houses as night and day-- although surely that sharp-eyed servant had told Valjean all about it when she had delivered Javert’s note.

“Very well,” he said. Despite his misgivings, he was nevertheless warmed by Valjean’s pleased smile. He started to leverage himself upright, ignoring both the way his heavy body wanted to sink back onto the chair and how Valjean’s hand fluttered uncertainly at his side as though he wanted to steady him. He peered around, frowning. “Where are your daughter and son-in-law? I should pay my respects before we go.”

“Oh. They have already retired for the evening.” When Javert stared at him, Valjean studied the ceiling rather than meet his astonished gaze. “Marius said to thank you for coming, and that he hoped you enjoyed the party.”

“They retired for the evening? Valjean, how long ago did they go to bed?” Javert demanded in a quiet whisper, some of his drowsiness replaced by exasperation as Valjean still did not meet his eyes. “Do not tell me I have been-- been snoring away for a good half-hour like a ninny!”

Valjean kept silent, and Javert huffed out an exasperated breath.

“I am surprised you did not fetch a blanket and tuck me into my chair,” he muttered.

“Ah, well,” Valjean said. He rubbed at the back of his neck, a sheepish smile upon his face. “Monsieur Moreau happened to mention you had been working quite hard these past few days, and I thought--”

“Moreau. I should have known.” He would have to have a word with the sergeant, Javert thought sourly. Moreau spoke a bit too freely when he was in Valjean’s company. What else would they discuss if they met again? He shook his head, dismissing the thought for the time being. “Never mind. Let us see if I can find a cab.”

Valjean smiled a little. “I believe Yount is already seeing to that.”

It was a warm night at least, and late enough that most of the houses they passed were dark and silent. The jostling of the cab as it passed quickly over the cobblestone should not have been soporific, and yet Javert found himself having to shift in his seat constantly lest the movement of the carriage lull him back to sleep. Drowsiness muddled his thoughts once more; he was grateful that Valjean was quiet beside him, his gaze turned out towards the silent houses, for he didn't think he could manage sensible speech.

His thoughts turned to Moreau and Azelma. He found himself mostly amused, remembering how Moreau had leaned upon Azelma’s arm and Azelma’s fierce, defiant look that had dared Javert to object. Still, he wondered what Moreau had told his family of Azelma, and did not realize he had spoken aloud until Valjean stirred and said, “Did you say something?”

“I was only thinking about Moreau and Mademoiselle Thénardier. A strange pair, for all that Moreau once insisted to me that they were only friends, and a strange beginning, besides.”

Javert caught Valjean’s frown from the corner of his eye. “A strange beginning? What do you mean?”

“Well, they first met when he arrested her.”

There was silence. Consternation crowded out some of the drowsiness as Javert realized what he had said and how Valjean might take it. He straightened a little in his seat and turned towards Valjean, whose expression was unreadable in the carriage’s shadows. “Ah, Moreau was with me at the Gorbeau House,” he explained. He cleared his throat, and when Valjean still said nothing, felt even more uneasy. He inwardly grimaced. It seemed he was always going to say the wrong thing, no matter how long he spent in Valjean’s company.  

“I see,” said Valjean.

If Javert had thought Valjean ending his silence would be a relief, he was wrong, for Valjean’s tone gave him no more indication to his thoughts than his shadowed expression had. “Valjean,” he said, and then stopped. He was glad, suddenly, for the dark, which hid his flushed face. He recalled his own words to Azelma, _I would call it a strange relationship, but I have known stranger_ , the way he had searched instinctively for Valjean. “I meant….” He faltered again, groping for the right words and finding nothing.

“Do you think their first meeting insurmountable?” Valjean’s voice was somehow too soft and too loud all at once. Before Javert could gather his breath to speak and fumble for an answer, Valjean said, “I find many relationships begin strangely. We need only look to the Bible for examples. Hosea and Gomer, Ruth and Boaz….”

 _You and I_ , rose to Javert’s lips, but he did not dare to voice it alongside Valjean’s examples of unusual marriages. Something that was not quite laughter caught in his throat. He coughed and said, “Perhaps some strangeness is necessary. Although it does not seem that your daughter met her husband in so unusual a manner.”

Valjean made a sound suspiciously like a snort, the reaction so unexpected that Javert blinked at him. “You didn't see how he watched us in the Luxembourg Gardens every day for months, all without uttering a word,” Valjean remarked, dry humor in his voice.

“But that is not strange,” Javert found himself protesting. “I don't claim to know your son-in-law well, but I suspect he was trying and failing to gather enough courage to approach you both.”

Valjean didn't make that strange sound again, but his tone was one of polite disbelief. "You may be right." He paused. "And doubtless I discouraged him as well."

"You did not approve of him?"

There was another pause. "I thought him a booby."

Javert laughed before he could stifle it, a sharp sound of mirth that made Valjean jump a little in his seat. "I am sorry," he said. "But I admit I also thought him a booby at our first meeting. In fact, your son-in-law will probably not say so, but I was intolerably rude to him."

"You, rude?"

It was Javert's turn to snort. "I don't know how you fooled me for so long when you are a terrible actor," he said. He might have cursed his loose tongue once more, except that Valjean said, so softly it might have not have been meant for his ears at all, "Ah, but we did not know each other then."

Javert hesitated, uncertain of if and how he should reply to the quiet remark. He thought of Valjean hiding behind the insurmountable barriers of Madeleine’s vague smile and steadfast placidity, and then of Valjean tonight, unmasked, as he had smiled and gestured excitedly about the school. "No, we did not," he said at last. He glanced towards Valjean to see his reaction and found Valjean looking back at him.

The clouds must have cleared, for Valjean’s face was no longer in shadow. He watched Javert steadily. Valjean’s lips parted, as though to speak, but in the next instant the carriage jostled to an abrupt stop, shaking the breath from Javert’s lungs and perhaps Valjean’s as well.

"Oh, we are here," Valjean said, and looked away from Javert and towards the carriage window. It was obviously not what he had intended to say, the words muttered.  

Javert sank back a little in his seat, blinking and ducking his head a little to hide his consternated frown. He wished a trifle crossly that his apartment had been a little further away and that the moment had not ended so abruptly. He had his hand on the door and a reluctant farewell on the tip of his tongue when Valjean said, quickly, “Should I-- ah, that is, I can walk you to your door. If you wish.”

The flustered edge to Valjean’s voice made Javert hesitate. He thought again of his small, cramped room, the desk covered with paperwork, and his small cupboard bare of anything but bread. Then he imagined Valjean escorting him to his door, and the porter’s curious look at Javert having a guest so late in the evening, and flushed.

“I,” he said, and stopped. He cleared his throat. “I would like that, but...I would, that is, it is late and I do not even have tea to offer you if you came inside. Perhaps another time when I can be a better host?” He had intended it as a suggestion, but it came out as a question instead. He bit back a grimace.

“Another time, then,” said Valjean. He was, to Javert’s surprise, smiling. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Valjean.”

 

* * *

 

" _It is not the responsibility of knights errant to discover whether the afflicted, the enchained and the oppressed whom they encounter on the road are reduced to these circumstances and suffer this distress for their vices, or for their virtues: the knight's sole responsibility is to succor them as people in need, having eyes only for their sufferings, not for their misdeeds._ "

Javert lowered the volume to his lap and studied the by-now familiar set of Valjean's shoulders. Amusement made his lips twitch before he forced his expression into neutrality. "Don Quixote has more to say, but you seem as though you wish to interject." 

Valjean, who had paused in his weeding, turned and looked somewhat sheepish. Reading _Don Quixote_  was proving even more slow-going than Rousseau's  _Reveries_ , impeded by continuous, mild debates generally started by one of Valjean's philosophical remarks. "I had not planned to interrupt this time, I swear," he said. He held up a supplicating hand. "I was only thinking that for a madman, Don Quixote is very often wise." 

"And perhaps that policemen have similar responsibilities to a knight-errant when keeping the peace?" Javert said, not quite dryly. Valjean's small smile somewhat lessened the remorseful sting at the thought of the decades Javert had ignored those moral responsibilities. 

"Perhaps. That is, I think--" Valjean paused, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping at his forehead. Then he glanced upwards, squinting a little despite the protection of his hat. His smile turned rueful as he tucked the handkerchief away once more. "I think I shall have to start working in the garden earlier. Now that it is nearly August, even the mornings are somewhat warm." 

Javert, who even safely ensconced in the shade had discarded his coat and hat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves in deference to the heat, thought Valjean's last remark an understatement. He frowned, studying the flush upon Valjean's face he had not seen when Valjean had been turned away from him. Earlier, he had been pleased by Valjean following suit, folding his workman's coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves, and that there had no longer been any hesitation in the gesture.

He picked up the water jug from the bench, intending to offer Valjean a drink, and was dismayed to find it empty. He would have to go and fetch more water. He lowered the jug back on to the bench, looking once more at Valjean. "How early do you intend to work in the garden?" he asked. The thought of Valjean rising before dawn made his frown deepen. "You should not lose sleep when--"

He hesitated, and something in his expression kept Valjean silent and Javert's question yet unanswered. It was not the summer heat that warmed his face in the next moment, but the memory of the weeding lesson, Valjean's hand still beneath his fingers, Valjean's quiet, unsteady breath at his touch. Javert had kept to his reading and work anecdotes since then, regulated to the bench by an unspoken agreement. How would Valjean take the suggestion, he wondered, should he offer to help weed once more? Unbidden, he remembered their quiet exchange in the carriage, the way moonlight had softened Valjean's features, the moment that had come and gone and which had not yet repeated in the intervening days since.

He cleared his throat and attempted a matter-of-fact tone. "I can come a little earlier and help you with the weeding as I did before. _Don Quixote_  can keep for a few days, surely." At the half-cautious turn of Valjean's lips, Javert added, quickly, "Though I admit I don't understand how you can remove every single weed from the patch one day and yet there will be another dozen in their place the following morning. How do more sprout each day despite all your efforts? It seems maddening." 

"They are determined to survive. I cannot fault them for that," Valjean said with another half-smile, his voice quiet. It was his turn to hesitate. His hands rose once more, this time to fiddle with the ribbon knotted under his chin. There was something nervous in the movements of his hands now, and Javert kept silent, watching as Valjean untied and then re-knotted the ribbon. "Your help with the weeding would be, ah, that is, I would be glad for it. And that reminds me that I had meant to-- the beets will be ready for harvest in a few days. I had thought-- that is, if you wished--" He paused once more, one corner of his mouth turning up in self-deprecation at his own fumble for words. Then he said slowly, "Since you have helped with the planting and weeding, I thought you might like to help with the harvest as well." 

Javert took a moment to answer, for Valjean had not made the suggestion as though it were an obvious conclusion to Javert purchasing the seeds on Valjean's behalf and that Javert should finish what he had begun, but tentatively, as though there was some undertone to the suggestion that Javert had missed. He thought, as he had when Valjean had asked to escort him to his apartment, how rare it was for Valjean to ask something of him. He cleared his throat once more.

"Will it take longer than our usual mornings? My next day off is Saturday, if we need the full day." 

"It might," said Valjean. One of his sudden smiles darted across his face. There was a pleased warmth in his eyes as he said, "Yes, Saturday is suitable." 

"Good," Javert said briskly, and rose. He took up the water jug and held it for Valjean's perusal when the other man looked puzzled. "Let me fetch some more water and then I will help you with today's weeding."

Valjean opened his mouth as though to protest that he could fetch the water himself, and then smiled instead. "Thank you."

Javert, uncomfortable with the quietly voiced gratitude, muttered, "You're welcome." He did not bother to put on his coat and hat for the brief walk it would take to get to the water pump. 

When he reached the pump, however, Cosette was already there, filling up a watering can. "Madame," he said, and she straightened with a bright smile. 

"Good morning, monsieur! I was just watering Papa's roses." Before he could offer his assistance, Cosette nodded to herself and added, "But you have good timing, for the roses have finally bloomed. I thought Papa might like one, but I did not wish to disturb you both." 

The last sentence was said with a small, tentative smile and half-teasing look that seemed to invite Javert in on a joke. Javert, suddenly aware that he was practically undressed, with his bare head and hands and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, attempted a smile in return, though it felt more like a grimace. "You would not have--" he began, and then stopped, for his words felt like a lie. What would Valjean have done in the middle of his fidgeting with his hat if Cosette had come to the vegetable patch with the rose? Would he still have asked for Javert's assistance with the harvest? Or would he have turned the conversation to roses and let the request remain unspoken? "That is, I can pass along the rose to your father, madame. Just let me fill the water jug first." 

"Of course. It is so warm today!"

The rose that Cosette pressed upon him a minute later was a pale pink flower that Javert supposed was pretty enough, though he still did not see the purpose of roses. "Madame," he said, and bowed.

"Monsieur," Cosette said with a merry laugh and then turned back to the pump, her laughter shifting to a half-hummed melody under her breath.

As Javert walked back towards the vegetable patch, he held the rose gingerly, mindful of thorns. It was not until Valjean glanced up at his approach and stared at the rose that Javert considered how queer he must look, a rose in one hand and the water jug in the other. His face heated for a second time that morning. "Your daughter," he muttered as his explanation, and then all but thrust the rose into Valjean's face.

Valjean blinked once, then twice, and then smiled and took the rose from him with equal care for the thorns. "I will have to thank Cosette later. I had not thought the roses would bloom today." He held the flower up to his nose and breathed in, his eyes closing.

Javert let himself look his full at the pleasure in Valjean's expression, the slight fluttering of his lashes. Perhaps roses were not so useless after all, he thought, if they could bring such a look to Valjean's face. It was only when Valjean sighed and opened his eyes, looking almost dreamy-eyed, that Javert dared to break the silence.

"Does it smell so sweet then?" 

Valjean looked surprised. "Did you not smell it?" At Javert's shake of the head, Valjean raised the flower.

Javert blinked, and then awkwardly bent over Valjean's hand, feeling slightly foolish as he breathed in the scent. Then his eyebrows rose in surprise. "Lemon? But how--" He stopped at Valjean's amused smile and pursed his lips. "I still don't think roses are especially useful."

Valjean continued to smile even as he placed the rose upon his vest, his fingers stroking over the soft petals before he picked up his trowel. "Vegetables provide sustenance, but roses provide pleasure," he said. "Doesn't a man need both to live a contented life?"

Javert thought of the pleasure to be found in inciting Valjean's smiles and laughter, and busied himself for a moment with placing the water jug on the ground within Valjean's reach. "Perhaps so," he admitted once he had gotten his expression under control. He darted another glance at Valjean's smiling profile, and added, the honesty heavy on his tongue, "But I think I will find my pleasure in things besides a rose's scent." 

Valjean's hands stilled for a moment, and then carefully resumed their work of wresting a weed from the earth. "So long as you find it somewhere," he said softly. 

Had Valjean taken his words as a rebuke of some sort? Javert knelt next to Valjean, for the moment uncaring of the dirt certain to stain his knees. He studied Valjean from the corner of his eye but could not tell whether it was discouragement or concentration that bowed the other man's head so. He reached for the second trowel, and then cleared his throat. He found his words slowly. "That is to say, roses may have an agreeable scent and look, I will grant you that, but they do not last. Nor can you eat them. A rose is a short-lived pleasure, whereas the pleasure of, of..." His mouth was dry; he ran his tongue over his lips and swallowed before he concluded, "...conversation and good company lasts far longer. I prefer the latter." 

When Valjean did not immediately answer him, Javert couldn't bring himself to look over and decipher the effect of his speech. Instead he stabbed the trowel into the dirt with a bit more force than was probably necessary; he frowned when the weed determinedly remained in place. He tried to mimic Valjean's movements of prying a weed from the earth, to no avail. He was scowling in frustration when light fingers brushed the back of his hand. He looked up, startled, to meet Valjean's slight smile.

If Valjean had been discouraged before, there was nothing of it in his expression now. His smile was small but full of good humor, and there was a soft crinkling at the corners of his eyes and a red flush upon his cheeks that could not be entirely explained by the heat. Javert was abruptly, absurdly glad that he had struggled to explain himself.

"The trowel is not deep enough. You will never get the weed that way," Valjean said quietly. He nodded towards the trowel, his fingers tensing lightly against Javert's hand. "May I...?" 

Javert didn't know what he was asking, too distracted by Valjean's gentle touch and the sensation of gritty earth still clinging to Valjean's fingers to think clearly. Despite this, a muttered "yes" escaped his lips. 

Valjean's hand closed lightly around Javert's wrist and slowly maneuvered his hand so that it held the trowel at a different position. He leaned in close, his breath tickling Javert's neck. "You must get it at this angle," he explained, the words said almost in a rush, "and put your whole weight behind the trowel to get it deep enough in the earth. Otherwise you will not get the entirety of the weed. Any severed roots left behind will grow again."

"I suppose one must admire them for their persistence," Javert remarked. It was the first response that leaped to his mind, and Valjean had paused as though awaiting a response. He earned a low laugh. Studying the angle of his wrist, he was still preoccupied by the sight of Valjean's dirt-stained hand wrapped around his wrist and the feel of Valjean's other hand as it settled tentatively upon Javert's shoulder. He licked his lips once more. "Well, let us try."

Together they dug into the earth, Valjean's hands steady upon Javert’s wrist and shoulder as Javert bore his full weight upon the trowel. This time the weed was wrested from the ground. "See?" Valjean said, sounding pleased.

Javert was disappointed when Valjean released him. Even the warm summer air felt cooler against his wrist in the absence of Valjean's touch; he missed the particular warmth immediately. He resisted the urge to press his fingers to his wrist or to his shoulder, for surely Valjean would spot the telling gesture. He nudged the water jug towards Valjean instead and said, "Drink some water." 

The corner of Valjean's mouth twitched. "Yes, monsieur," he said in a deceptively mild tone and drank even as Javert pursed his lips at him and attempted to hide his own amusement. 

Javert's gaze dropped briefly to the rose, the pink almost startling against the dull brown of Valjean's workman's vest. He remembered how Valjean had stroked the petals, the slow sweep of his fingers; he did not, for the moment, let himself imagine Valjean touching him so. He said, straining for lightness even as he forced the trowel back into the earth to root out the next weed, "I have been thinking also, that roses are useless companions. One would be even worse at weeding than I." 

"You are not so bad."

When he looked over, Valjean smiled at him, one of his bright, sudden smiles that was always a blow to Javert's chest. He smiled half-helplessly back and had to take a breath before he could respond. "Yes, well, you are a patient instructor." He took another breath. "Speaking of teachers, what news of a potential teacher for the school? Are the interviews finished?"

Valjean's expression brightened further. "Cosette and I have one more interview tomorrow afternoon, but I believe we have already found a suitable teacher. He is Monsieur Reinchard of Chartres--" 

His words washed over Javert. As before Javert drank in the enthusiasm in Valjean's face, committed the curve of his mouth to memory. The happiness in his voice was a sweeter sound than the melodies the musicians had played at Pontmercy's party. 

"...and then there is the library," Valjean said, and Javert was jerked abruptly from his thoughts. "Monsieur Gillenormand has offered to give some of his collection, the books that would be, ah, suitable for children, to the library. And after the interview tomorrow, Cosette and I are going to a bookstore and see what else we might find." 

Javert's face warmed. He couldn't banish this particular heat though he knew his face was red. Still, he hadn't thought Valjean would take his suggestion to heart. "I would offer some of my books, but I am afraid the children are somewhat young for tracts on law," he muttered, fidgeting with the trowel and knocking some dirt loose. 

"Perhaps when they are older," Valjean said, a smile in his voice. 

"Perhaps," Javert said, and once more bent to the task of weeding. 

 

* * *

 

Javert hadn't expected Cosette to greet him at the gate the morning of the harvest, but he found her waiting there with a welcoming smile upon her face and Yount nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning, madame," he said, bowing and trying not to openly stare, for Cosette had somehow found a large straw hat similar to Valjean's.

He must have been staring despite his efforts, because Cosette laughed gaily and wrinkled her nose at him as she unlocked the gate. "Good morning to you, monsieur. How do you like my hat? I found it at the market the other day and thought that I should match Papa." She pursed her lips and raised her eyes towards the brim of her hat, her expression pensive. "I do not know if it suits me, but it certainly helps with the sun while I am in the garden."

Javert, who had no polite answer for her for in truth she looked only slightly less ridiculous than Valjean in such a hat, said instead, "The sun is indeed warm this morning. I will be glad for autumn and the cooler weather. Are you tending to the roses today? Or, ah, are you helping with the beets?" Something like disappointment twisted sharp and sudden in his chest at the idea of Cosette assisting with the harvest; he quelled a frown at his own foolishness, for Cosette's company was pleasant and Valjean would be glad of her presence. And yet the disquiet remained, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. With a start, he realized that she was answering him.

"--not very helpful, I am afraid, inspector! Marius and I will assist with the harvest just long enough to gather a basket for a foundling hospital we have been visiting these past few weeks." The good humor ebbed from her face, and a slightly pinched look replaced it. "They are pitiable places, foundling hospitals, and no fit place for children to be raised."

Javert cleared his throat. An equally foolish surge of relief had replaced the disappointment, but the sentiment was temporary, for the obvious unhappiness in Cosette's expression at the children's plight banished that unworthy emotion. He tried to make his voice soft, though he was certain the words came out brusque. "I am certain the children will appreciate the food, madame."

"It was Azelma's idea. She said--" Here Cosette paused, her voice and posture changing. She raised her chin in a half-defiant way. She was, Javert realized after a puzzled second, attempting to mimic Azelma's careful speech and posture as well as her tone, which had apparently been one of polite but stubborn cynicism. "--'Giving money is a good thought, but most of it goes straight to the pockets of the people in charge. Better give food to the place so the children will see some of it.'" She relaxed then, resuming her more familiar stance, one corner of her mouth turning upwards. "I have more faith in Madame Bouchard, the woman in charge of the funds at this particular hospital, than Azelma does, but I don't think giving food directly will do any harm."

First the washhouse, then the school, and now it seemed Cosette would turn her attention to this foundling hospital as well. Javert recalled his jest a few weeks earlier that Pontmercy would become a député through Cosette's efforts. Perhaps his attempt at humor had had more merit than he'd believed. He ran a hand across his jaw, trying to quell the amused twitch of his lips. "I will trust your judgment, madame, on both Madame Bouchard's nature and the food. But come, I am distracting you and wasting time. Let us go and gather some beets for the hospital."

Cosette smiled. "You are right, of course."

Somehow Javert wasn't surprised to find that Cosette had procured a straw hat for her husband as well. Pontmercy wore it with evident pleasure, touching his fingers to the brim in greeting and smiling broadly as Cosette and Javert neared the vegetable patch. "Good morning, monsieur! I was just telling Father that I was certain you would be along any minute now. Has Cosette told you about the foundling hospital?"

"Good morning, monsieur. And yes, she has. I'm certain they will appreciate the vegetables." Still, even the sight of the ridiculous hat upon Pontmercy's head was only a momentary distraction, Javert looking instinctively to Valjean, who had paused in the middle of uprooting a beet at his and Cosette's approach. He noticed Valjean's rolled-up shirtsleeves at once, and felt his polite smile warm into something more genuine. He didn't know if Cosette had had to encourage Valjean to make himself comfortable or if he had discarded his coat and rolled up his sleeves without prompting, but either way, Javert was glad for it. "Good morning," he said again.   

Valjean smiled back. "Good morning, Javert."

Javert stepped to the bench. He hesitated for a moment, but Cosette had already seen him in his shirtsleeves, and both Valjean and Pontmercy had already discarded their coats. Surely no one would be bothered if he followed suit. He removed his coat and folded it carefully, setting it upon the bench and placing his hat and gloves upon it. When he turned, it was to spot a thoughtful look upon Cosette's face as she studied him. He quelled the urge to tug at his whiskers or smooth down his shirtsleeves. He cleared his throat. "Is something the matter, madame?"

Cosette blinked, and then looked unapologetic at being caught scrutinizing him. "Oh no, monsieur. Nothing is wrong. I was only thinking about the spare straw hat that I bought," she said, smiling. "I had thought to give it to Papa, but he insists on wearing his own." Her expression brightened. "Perhaps it will suit you better! I can fetch it if you like."

Javert imagined himself wearing the same absurd hat and grimaced, horrified. In the next second he had regained control of his expression, rearranging his features into what he hoped was a politely noncommittal look. He was fumbling for a way to refuse without hurting her feelings when a loud bark of laughter made him turn and stare, startled, at Valjean instead.

Valjean ducked his head as Pontmercy and Cosette also looked at him in surprise, a flush spreading across his cheeks. Despite his embarrassment, there was still a thread of suppressed laughter in his voice as he muttered, "I am sorry, Javert, it is only your expression was--" He stopped, his lips twitching again. He coughed. "Well. You made your feelings quite plain."

Pontmercy chuckled. "It _was_  quite a look, monsieur. One might have thought Cosette offered you a live snake instead of a hat!" From the corner of his eye, Javert saw Pontmercy touch the brim of his hat once more, squinting up at it much as Cosette had earlier. He added with another good-natured laugh, "Perhaps they are unfashionable, but I like them nevertheless."  

Javert almost twitched when Cosette patted his arm and smiled at him. He suppressed the urge. At least she had not taken offense, looking amused. "Well, I will not force the hat upon you, monsieur, but please tell me if you change your mind."

"Thank you, I will keep that in mind," Javert said, though he knew he wouldn't take her up on the offer. Judging by the silent laughter in her eyes, she knew it as well. He was relieved when she walked carefully through the vegetable patch to her husband’s side and adjusted his hat, which had gone lopsided as Pontmercy had fiddled with it. When she moved to kiss her husband's cheek, Javert quickly turned his gaze back to Valjean, who still looked amused. He cleared his throat, hunting for another subject to discuss, but his thoughts were still scattered. At last he coughed and asked, "Well, ah, is there a special trick to getting the beets from the ground?"  

It was a weak attempt to change the subject, but Valjean smiled and said, "It can be a little difficult at first. Come, let me show you."

It seemed that multiple plants came from one seed, which Valjean had handled earlier in the season by trimming away the surplus plants. Valjean explained further that beets only flowered and produced seeds in their second year, so he would keep a few of the beets to replant in the spring. "We will not need all the seeds ourselves, of course, and in fact we will only have seeds if there are no surprise frosts in the spring, but we can--" Valjean began. He paused when Javert held up a hand.

Javert had recognized that now-familiar enthusiasm in Valjean's eyes. He allowed one corner of his mouth to turn up in a small smile as he said, "Please, let me guess what you plan to do with the excess seeds." He pretended to consider the matter carefully, weighing his options as amusement softened Valjean's expression. "I suppose you will give them to this foundling hospital of yours so that they can have their own garden."

Pontmercy laughed, delighted. He clapped his hands, scattering dirt onto his trousers with the gesture. "Yes, that is exactly what we were considering, monsieur!"

"Why so surprised, darling?" Cosette said, looking fondly at her husband. "Monsieur Javert is an inspector after all. He can recognize a pattern when he sees one. If we are so set on feeding the hospital today, will we not be equally determined to do so a year from now?"

"Oh, I suppose we _are_  predictable," Pontmercy agreed cheerfully. He looked towards Javert, earnestness stamped upon his face. "But you must agree that since we have the means to help this foundling hospital, then we should, monsieur. After all, no child should go hungry."

"I'm certain Monsieur Javert agrees, dear," said Cosette before Javert could speak. She placed a gentle hand upon Pontmercy's arm and smiled at him. "But here we are distracting poor Monsieur Javert with talk of something that will not happen for a year! And meanwhile the beets wait patiently in their beds to be harvested." She turned her smile upon Valjean. "Papa, wilt thou please demonstrate how to dig out the beets?"

"Certainly, my dear," Valjean said, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a small smile of his own. He turned towards Javert. After a moment he inclined his head and said mildly, seeming almost amused once more, "You might wish to be closer to observe."

With a start Javert realized that he was still standing on the path, watching them all like a ninny. Now he gave himself a mental shake and stepped onto the black soil, feeling it shift under his boots. He knelt next to Valjean. The movements felt awkward in a way they had not since he had first begun to work in the garden with Valjean; he was acutely aware of Pontmercy and Cosette's presence. The distance he had placed between Valjean and himself seemed at once both too far and too near.

He hoped that his sudden nerves did not show on his face. Apparently they did not, or at least Valjean pretended not to notice them, for Valjean smiled and picked up his trowel. Javert kept his gaze fixed upon Valjean's hands, did not let it trace its way up Valjean's arms or even flicker towards Valjean's face; Pontmercy and Cosette's silent observation of the lesson was like a hand upon the back of his neck, keeping him motionless. It was only once the demonstration was over and Valjean had placed the beet in a nearby basket that Javert allowed himself to move, shaking his head and frowning. "I hadn't realized that this would be so complicated."

"Did you think we would need only to grip the tops of the vegetables and pull them from the earth?" Valjean asked with another amused smile. When Javert pursed his lips at him and said nothing, having not considered at all how one harvested vegetables, Valjean chuckled. "Ah, well, you are not wrong. Many gardeners do simply pull the beets from the ground, but I prefer this method. I find that it preserves the greens better, you see. And we watered the garden last night, so that should make the digging somewhat easier."

"And don't worry if you accidentally cut into a beet, monsieur!" Pontmercy interjected. When Javert glanced over, Pontmercy and Cosette wore matching looks of encouragement. "Father assures me it will do no harm to the taste, though they will have to be used sooner. We shall keep those for ourselves!"

Javert wondered how many of the beets were in pieces from Pontmercy's lesson. Then he caught the flicker of a look upon Valjean's face. His lips twitched and betrayed his amusement as a suspicion formed in the back of his mind. "And sooner means today or the beets will spoil, I suppose," he muttered under his breath, and was answered by a rueful gleam in Valjean's eyes. Javert inclined his head towards Pontmercy and said, louder, "Thank you, monsieur. That is good to know. We wouldn't wish to give the hospital beets unfit to eat."

"Do you wish to try?" Valjean asked, offering the trowel to him.

Javert took it, but despite his care their fingers still brushed and sent a spark of heat up Javert's arm. He did not wrench his hand away from Valjean's, though his breath caught in his throat and he had to fight back a flush. Once more he wished Cosette and Pontmercy were further away, that every movement he made was not so closely observed. He distracted himself by turning the trowel over in his hands and remarking, striving for lightness, "Well, I suppose if I didn't harm the beets during the planting and the weeding, I will not do so now."

He bent to the task, gripping the nearest beet where the leaves met the root. He began to dig around the beet, carefully shifting the dirt away. He mimicked Valjean's movements exactly, and tried not to think of their previous lesson, Valjean's hands gentle and sure upon his wrist and shoulder. At last he uncovered enough of the beet to get his hands around it and lift it from the earth. When he turned, Valjean was there with his basket.

Javert placed the beet with the others as Cosette remarked cheerfully, "Why, you are a quick study, monsieur!"

"I have a good teacher," said Javert, unthinking, and then flushed hot beneath his collar at Valjean's half-bemused, half-pleased smile.

"Oh, but you are already too warm from the sun, monsieur! Your face is quite red." There was a frown in Pontmercy's voice as he stepped over a row of vegetables and drew closer to Valjean and Javert. He peered at Javert with surprising concern in his eyes. "Will you not change your mind and wear the hat? I can fetch it at once. Or if you need some water, I shall--"

"I am fine," Javert said hastily. He took in a breath, and then another, and banished the embarrassed heat from his face. He rose to his feet and moved over to where the next beet protruded from the earth; he did not quite dare to look at Valjean. He cleared his throat. "Though I thank you for your concern, monsieur."

"If you are certain," Pontmercy said, though he looked unconvinced, continuing to frown. He opened his mouth to say something more, and then paused at the sound of his wife's voice.  

"Marius, dear, I need assistance. It seems that this beet refuses to be harvested."

Pontmercy and Javert both turned to find Cosette with her lips pursed in a small frown, staring at a half-extracted beet as though it had insulted her. She apparently had little concern for her clothing, for she was down in the dirt as though she wore trousers instead of a dress.

"Of course, dearest," Pontmercy said. He returned to her side and then knelt. It was his turn to frown at the beet, tilting his head to the side and staring in silence for a few seconds. "Perhaps, together...?" he suggested. Both Pontmercy and Cosette cupped one side of the beet and then tugged at the vegetable. Pontmercy laughed triumphantly as the beet came free. "There!"

Javert dared to look at Valjean. He found Valjean watching him, the earlier surprised smile replaced by a thoughtful look. Javert coughed and fidgeted with the trowel. He tapped it sharply against the ground, knocking free some dirt. Once more he hunted for something that would divert Valjean. "Speaking of teachers, did you decide upon Monsieur Reinchard?"

He had spoken louder than he intended, it seemed, for it was Cosette who answered him. "We did! And Papa and I have found a few books for the library as well. We should have everything ready for September."

"You must come and see the school, monsieur," Pontmercy added. "After all, Father told us that you suggested the library."

It was Javert's turn to be startled and stare at Valjean, who flushed faintly but looked steadily back at him. "It _was_  your idea," Valjean said.

"Yes, but--" Javert stopped and huffed out an exasperated breath. He supposed that Valjean had seen it as taking credit if he kept silent regarding Javert’s contribution. He shook his head. "Having an idea is all well and good, but you are the ones putting thought to action."  

"Well, if you wish to help, monsieur, you can accompany us during our next trip to a bookstore," Cosette said. When Javert looked to gauge her sincerity, there was a mischievous smile upon her lips.

Beside him, Valjean was wearing his half-smile that meant he was trying not to laugh. Javert pursed his lips at them both, amused in spite of himself. "If you need someone to carry the books, then I am at your service, madame," he said, and watched her smile widen. "If you expect me to offer some suggestions as to what a child would read, however, I have no earthly idea."

"That is quite all right. Monsieur Reinchard gave us a list of recommendations."

"Oh!" Pontmercy peered into the basket he and Cosette had been filling. A pleased smile spread across his face. "I think it is full. What do you think, dear?"

"I think if we fill it any further, we shall not be able to carry it," Cosette decided after her own examination. She stood with her husband’s assistance, smiling in satisfaction and brushing most of the dirt from her dress and gloves.

“Surely Yount could assist you if you wished to bring more beets, madame?” Javert suggested as Pontmercy hefted the basket into his arms and grunted at the weight.  

“Yount is not here,” Cosette said. At his puzzled look, she tilted her head. “Did I forget to mention it when I greeted you at the gate? All the servants have the day off.”

“All?” Javert said, blinking. He glanced towards the house. “Surely not _all_ , madame. Wouldn’t Monsieur and Mademoiselle Gillenormand want at least one servant here?” He tried and failed to imagine Monsieur Gillenormand surviving even a morning without a servant.

“They are not here either,” Pontmercy said cheerfully, albeit a bit breathlessly, as though he strained under the basket’s weight. “Grandfather enjoyed having company over for my birthday so much that he’s decided to return to society. He is spending the day at a salon he used to frequent. And my aunt is off visiting her friend Madame Bauchene.”

Javert was struck dumb by the realization that with Cosette and Pontmercy departing for the foundling hospital, soon he and Valjean would be alone, entirely alone in a way they had not been since that night upon the parapet. After that day there had always been the portress or porter at their respective lodgings as unknowing chaperones, or the rest of the household at No. 6 constantly within shouting distance.

Heat rushed back into his face, impossible to force away; he turned away hastily before Pontmercy could spot the flush and grow concerned again. He studied a nearby bean plant, touching the edge of one of its leaves. “I see,” he said, and wondered if it was only in his own ears that his voice sounded strange.

Perhaps not, because a second later a gentle hand rested upon his elbow. Startled, he looked up into Cosette’s smiling countenance. There was a slight color to her cheeks that could be explained by the summer heat, but Javert, remembering an earlier blush when she had misunderstood his request for privacy in the garden, couldn’t discount an entirely different reason.

“I charge you to watch over Papa today, monsieur,” she said, at once both teasing and entirely in earnest, her lips wearing the same mischievous smile of before but her eyes serious. Her gloved hand rested lightly on his arm, lingering far beyond what was surely proper. He wondered that Pontmercy made no objection, that Valjean wasn’t saying a word. He found that he couldn’t look away from Cosette’s solemn eyes, wasn’t certain he wished to look over and see Valjean’s expression. “Please make certain he doesn’t overwork himself trying to harvest the beets all in one day. They will surely keep for a day or two.”

Javert’s lips were dry, but he didn’t dare to wet them with his tongue, not with Cosette’s steady gaze upon him, observing his every gesture. He remembered that first visit in the garden. What had he told Valjean then? It took him a moment to recall his remark, that day seeming like another lifetime ago.

_Your daughter and son-in-law shall force happiness upon you whether you will it or not, and I will be their accomplice._

Javert had not imagined then how he himself might offer Valjean some measure of happiness as well. He had only thought to supplement Cosette and Pontmercy’s efforts. What a difference even a few months could make, he thought, marveling a little. Again heat warmed his face.

He had been quiet for too long, or perhaps the mounting color in his face had suggested displeasure; Cosette’s gloved hand left his arm, her fingers fluttering uncertainly against his sleeve, some of the mischief in her smile replaced by caution, as though she feared she’d overstepped. He did not stop her, acutely aware of his bare hands, his gloves discarded on the bench.

He attempted a smile. “As before, madame, I am your accomplice in his welfare. I will see that he rests.” He paused, a thought striking him. Mild consternation furrowed his brow. “And that we eat a decent meal, though I hope the cook at least left something for us, for I am no cook….”

“Madame Deniau did not, but I thought we might use some of the beets for a salad,” came Valjean’s quiet answer. When Javert looked over, Valjean had found a spare trowel somewhere, for he was placing a beet in his basket with careful attention. Valjean straightened and started to gesture but caught himself, as though he had meant to run a hand through his beard before he remembered the dirt. His lips twitched into a faint, crooked smile as he looked up at Cosette and Javert. His voice when he spoke sounded vaguely apologetic. “I am afraid I have not ventured often into the kitchen myself, but surely making a salad won’t be too difficult.”

“Yes, Father, you and Monsieur Javert should enjoy the fruits of your labors,” Pontmercy said. Then he shook his head, looking suddenly pleased with himself, but also strangely wistful. His odd expression was partially explained a second later as he said, “Or perhaps I should say the _vegetables_  of your labor.”

Cosette, perhaps seeing the queer wistfulness in her husband’s face or hoping to prevent further attempts at jokes, returned to his side. She patted his arm, which had begun to shake a little from the effort of holding the basket. Then she turned back to Javert and directed a sharp-eyed smile at him. “I will hold you to that, monsieur,” she said. Then she hesitated, her gaze darting between Valjean and Javert. She opened her mouth to say something and then shut it, frowning and hesitant. There was a sudden crease in her brow. Then her cheeks pinked and she said, all in a rush, “Have a good day, Papa, Monsieur Javert.” Javert had a second to blink at her sudden transformation into a flustered girl before she whirled and marched with a flare of her dress to the path.

“Come along, dear,” she said briskly, her head very high, her back very straight. She snatched the straw hat off her head and tucked it under her arm, revealing her cap trimmed with blue ribbon and the back of her neck still an embarrassed pink. “Let’s leave Papa and the inspector to their-- ah, to the harvest.”

“Yes, dearest,” Pontmercy said, although he looked puzzled by Cosette’s sudden departure. “Good day. We’ll see you after dinner, Father.” He nodded towards Javert and Valjean, offering them a brief but sincere smile before he followed his wife, still struggling with the basket’s weight.

Javert could not answer, could only stare after Cosette, for there had been the same hesitance in the way she’d tripped over her final sentence as when she’d faltered in describing him as her father’s friend. He thought of all her careful, curious glances over the past few months and wondered, a half-amused, half-uncomfortable laugh choking him, if that had been Cosette’s idea of giving them her blessing.  

Valjean looked as bemused as Pontmercy, his expression searching as he watched Cosette stride up the path towards the house. He turned towards Javert as a strangled laugh escaped. “Give my regards to Madame Bouchard and everyone at the hospital,” he called after Pontmercy, belatedly, though he sounded distracted, now looking at Javert with a silent question in his eyes.

This time Javert managed not to flush, though it was a near thing as he fiddled with the trowel. “Well,” he said. He pretended not to notice Valjean’s inquiring look, for he was certainly not about to explain why he had laughed. “We should get back to work--”

“Javert,” Valjean said. Something in his voice drew Javert’s gaze back to his grave face, which wore a vague smile, a pale imitation of his earlier smiles.

It was an expression that unsettled Javert. After a second’s consideration, he realized why. It reminded him too much of Madeleine’s looks when he was trying to escape unwanted conversation or company.

Valjean cleared his throat and said carefully, “You have contributed to the planting and the weeding. And you have even helped with the harvest. Please don’t let Cosette’s words make you feel obligated to--”

“Obligated!” Javert could not restrain an incredulous snort. At the sound, some of the solemnity fled Valjean’s face, replaced by sheepishness. Still the graveness lingered, along with a new flicker of uncertainty that both exasperated and stung Javert. He tapped the trowel against his thigh and repressed a frown. Did Valjean truly think that Javert might be here only because of some promise to Cosette? He remembered one of Valjean’s rare outbursts, that he was no task for Javert to complete. But surely Valjean knew that wasn’t the case. He shook his head. “Valjean, your daughter may have you and your son-in-law wrapped around her finger, but she does not have such control over me.”

When skepticism crept into Valjean’s expression, Javert recalled his failed efforts to avoid Pontmercy’s birthday. He amended with a brief twitch of his lips, “Very well, I find it somewhat difficult to refuse her, but I--” He paused, searching for the right words. He said slowly, willing Valjean to believe him, for the last of the uncertainty upon his face to clear, “Valjean. I am not here out of any obligation to your daughter. I am here because I want to be.”

Valjean was silent for a long moment. His gaze seemed to probe Javert; Javert kept still and met his eyes, trying to show his sincerity. At last Valjean’s smile warmed and reached his eyes. “Good. And I am-- I am glad for your company.”

It was ridiculous, Javert thought, that he should be exasperated at Valjean’s uncertainty that Javert enjoyed his company and then a moment later be surprised and stupidly touched when Valjean expressed a similar sentiment. Had it only been minutes ago that Cosette had mentioned Javert’s ability as an inspector to spot a pattern? And yet the conclusion to this particular pattern seemed obvious only now, that Valjean both enjoyed and welcomed their time together. Javert tugged at his whiskers and smiled back as he muttered, “Yes, well. I intend to remain in your company for as long as you wish.”

In the quiet of the garden, the remark sounded like a confession, earning him a wondering look from Valjean. Javert resisted the urge to flush again, all too aware that Cosette and Pontmercy were doubtless still in the house, for surely Cosette would change into a clean dress before they left for the foundling house. He tapped his trowel more forcefully against his thigh, trying to distract himself from the pleased crinkling at the corners of Valjean’s eyes.

“Well,” he muttered again, and inwardly winced at the inanity. He moved to the next beet, kneeling in front of it and eyeing it with more attention than was probably necessary. “Let’s see how many beets we can harvest.”

Valjean said nothing, but his hand rested, warm and lingering, on Javert’s shoulder as he knelt. They worked in silence for a few minutes before Valjean said, “I hope you don’t mind a simple meal.” He paused and added, as though just struck by the possibility, “But do you actually _like_  beets, or did you buy them because I mentioned them? I did not think to ask your preference for summer vegetables, or if you even eat midday meals--”

Javert couldn’t help but snort once more, cutting short Valjean’s dismayed speech. He met Valjean’s sheepish smile with a half-amused one of his own. “For midday meals, well, you learn to eat whenever you can as an inspector if you wish to eat at all. I have often had supper at midnight and breakfast at dawn. I say we eat whenever we are hungry.” He paused, looking at the lingering sheepishness on Valjean’s face. “And what would you have done if I said that I hate beets?” he asked, curious. “Gone to the market to buy something else and saved your son-in-law’s beets for dinner?”

This earned him a rueful laugh, the concern gone from Valjean’s face. He smiled a little as he shook his head and said, “No. I suppose I would have offered you all the bread and cheese in the kitchen. But _do_  you dislike beets?”

“I have no particular preference for or against beets,” Javert said honestly. He hesitated a moment, thinking of Cosette and Pontmercy, most likely still in the house but nowhere near the garden and unlikely to return. Giving in to an impulse, he nudged lightly at Valjean with his shoulder. “But I agree that between the two of us we can surely manage a salad.”

One of Valjean’s rare unmuted smiles flashed like a burst of sudden sunlight, there and gone again in a moment before it settled into a small smile. “Yes,” he said, and leaned a little into Javert, a reassuring, welcome pressure for a few seconds before Valjean shifted his weight and reached out to wrest a beet from the earth.

They worked in relative quiet, the sun warm but not unpleasantly so above them, the silence marked by occasional birdsong and easy, soft-voiced discussion about the school and the station-house. Valjean spoke on his impression of Monsieur Reinchard and further plans for the library; Javert, of several interesting open cases and Moreau’s return to desk duty at the station-house.  

“I think we will need another basket at this rate,” Valjean remarked with a satisfied smile, placing another beet into the basket. “I shall--” He started to rise and then stumbled.

Javert scrambled upright, grasping Valjean’s shoulder and steadying him. He was alarmed by Valjean’s sudden pinched look, the way he’d caught his breath as though in pain. “Valjean, are you--”

Valjean flushed and said hurriedly, “I am fine. My knee sometimes gets stiff. I didn’t realize it, that’s all.” He straightened, resting a little in Javert’s grasp as he bent and unbent his leg with care. Then he offered Javert a small smile of self-conscious reassurance. “You see? It is nothing.”

Javert pursed his lips, studying Valjean, but the pained look had been replaced by an embarrassed air. He didn’t seem to be concealing any lingering discomfort. Still, Javert was reluctant to withdraw his hand, his heart still beating quickly in his ears. Valjean’s stumble reminded him too much of their time at the Rue de l’Homme Arme, when Valjean had labored to walk from his bed to the door. “Well, even so,” he said, still watching Valjean carefully for any signs of pain. “Perhaps we should rest.”

Valjean was still beneath his touch, his apologetic smile almost as crooked as his hat, which had come askew when he’d tripped. The knot under Valjean’s chin had half-unraveled and seemed likely to come entirely undone, but Valjean didn’t seem to notice, smiling ruefully at him. “If you wish, we can. But, Javert, I assure you that my knee feels fine.”   

“Resting a little won’t do any harm, surely. As your daughter said, the beets will keep for another day or two. A half-hour respite won’t hurt them.”

“Very well,” said Valjean with another small smile and shake of his head. The latter gesture only served to tilt his hat further awry. Another careless movement, and the hat was certain to fall off.

“We could take the first basket to the kitchen, get out of the sun,” Javert suggested, reaching out to straighten Valjean’s hat. His fingertips had just gripped the brim when he paused, made suddenly uncertain by the change in Valjean’s expression and the way Valjean’s arm tensed in his grip. For another second Javert hesitated. He was aware in a way he had not been only a moment ago that he had stepped close to Valjean when Valjean had stumbled, that his one hand had now rested longer upon Valjean’s arm than was surely necessary to steady him. He gripped the brim of the hat, frozen in indecision.

But just as quickly as Valjean’s arm had tensed, it relaxed, and Valjean did not pull away. Color rose in his face, spread across his cheeks and turned even the tips of his ears pink, but the corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards, a silent encouragement, or at least not an outright dismissal.

The smile gave Javert confidence despite his sudden nerves and the dryness of his mouth. He didn’t speak, a silly foolish thought in the back of his mind that any sound would break up the moment, as his own breathless _Valjean?_  had when Valjean had moved to wipe his brow free of dirt all those weeks ago. He carefully adjusted the hat until it rested straight upon Valjean’s head. Then his hand dropped to the ribbon beneath Valjean’s chin, the other hand reluctantly releasing Valjean’s arm in order to pick apart the half-unraveled knot. He could feel Valjean’s breath catch at the touch and felt against his fingertips the rapid fluttering of Valjean’s heartbeat. As though in answer, his heart pounded unsteadily in his ears, and he knew that his face must also be flushed.

His hands turned clumsy; Javert caught his lower lip between his teeth in frustrated concentration as he fumbled with the knot. At last he managed to untie and then retie it, knotting it with careful precision despite the way his hands wanted to shake. He ran his thumb carefully under the knot, testing that it was loose enough for Valjean to breathe and speak easily, Valjean’s beard soft and distracting against his skin.

Even more distracting, however, was the heat in Valjean’s gaze that warmed Javert through, and the way he wetted his lips with his tongue, as though his mouth was as dry as Javert’s. Valjean opened his mouth to speak and Javert held his breath, anticipation tightening his chest. He didn't lean forward, but it was a very near thing; rather, his ears strained to catch even the minute catch of Valjean’s breath.

But instead of Valjean’s quiet voice, a queer rumbling sound filled the air instead. As Javert blinked, caught off-guard, Valjean flushed even more scarlet. He gave an embarrassed jerk of his chin that bumped against Javert’s fingers, laughing awkwardly, and said in a flustered mumble, “I’m sorry. I’m a little hungry, it seems….”

It had been Valjean’s stomach, Javert realized. He found himself torn between amusement and something like frustration, for it seemed that these moments would always be broken by minor things: the sudden jerk of the carriage coming to a stop before Javert’s apartment or, now, the sudden complaint of Valjean’s empty stomach. His hands still rested lightly against the underside of Valjean’s jaw, one thumb brushing the knotted ribbon. He forced his hands to his sides, quelling the urge to try to recapture the moment and cup Valjean’s face, uncaring of the dirt that would doubtless catch in Valjean’s beard, and coax whatever Valjean had been about to say past his lips.

He huffed out a breath, still feeling that mixture of frustrated amusement. “Well, we certainly have enough beets for a meal,” he said, somewhat dryly, earning a still-embarrassed smile from Valjean. He shook his head. “Come, I’ll carry the basket to the kitchen.”

“Oh, I can--” Valjean said, trailing off as Javert stepped away. His hands twitched a little at his sides and then went still. “Very well.”

Javert wondered if Valjean too was repressing the desire to reach out to him, his hunger deemed inconsequential. The thought was gratifying; Javert ducked his head hastily over the basket to hide the pleased smile that turned up his lips and doubtless made him look a fool. “Where are we having the meal?” he asked as he lifted the basket carefully, testing the weight. The beets, not very burdensome as individuals, proved heavier in a collection than he’d anticipated, and he had to repress a grunt as he hefted the basket into his arms. “The kitchen seems the most obvious place. I suppose we could eat in the dining room, though it is somewhat large for two. And then there’s the garden, but you may wish to escape the heat--” He stopped, catching more inanity between his teeth and inwardly grimacing. Instead of smiling like an idiot at Valjean, it seemed he would babble at him instead.

Valjean was quiet. When Javert turned, slowly, the basket weighing him down, he found Valjean wearing a half-abashed smile, as though Javert had caught him in something. As he watched, Valjean licked his lips and said quietly, “Actually, I had thought we might take our meal in my rooms.”

Javert was caught off-guard by the suggestion. He had never seen Valjean’s rooms at the Rue des Filles-Calvaire. He did not, he realized, even know where Valjean’s rooms _were_ , only that they existed. He tried to imagine these newer rooms, but could only picture something very similar to the ones Valjean had kept at the Rue de l’Homme Arme: spartan except for the few knickknacks that presumably had been purchased for or by Cosette.

Javert hesitated, studying the way Valjean did not quite meet his eyes. It was queerly intimate, this idea of Valjean’s, or perhaps Javert just wished it so, his own desires making him misinterpret the gesture. And yet Valjean had not extended such an invitation before, when there had been others around, and Javert could not help but think, or rather hope, that Valjean’s timing meant something more than simply that the rooms would be more comfortable than the kitchen.

As with Cosette, he had waited too long to answer; his prolonged silence had been taken as disagreement. Valjean flushed and said quickly, “The kitchen will work just as well, of course. I just thought that it might--”

“No. No, we should eat in your rooms,” Javert said. The words stuck in his throat and yet somehow came out even and unaffected by the sudden nervous twisting of his stomach.

Valjean blinked, a surprised but pleased smile flitting briefly across his face. “Oh, good.” Then he paused; there was a strange, almost hopeful look upon his face for a few seconds. Before Javert could begin to guess at what he anticipated, however, Valjean glanced at the basket Javert held. One corner of his mouth turned upwards, as though he was repressing the urge to laugh at himself. Then he reached for the knot Javert had just tied, untying it quickly and then tucking the hat under his arm.  

Had he wanted Javert to untie the knot, for Javert to set the beets down and touch him again? Javert inwardly scowled, irritated with himself at the missed opportunity. His fingers twitched against the basket’s rough weave, remembering the softer feel of Valjean’s beard. He adjusted the basket in his arms, shifting the weight as he said briskly, “Well, the sooner we get these to the kitchen and washed, the sooner we can eat.”

“I can carry….” Valjean stopped with a quiet, unsurprised laugh when Javert pursed his lips.

“I am fine. The basket is not so heavy.”

Valjean led him to the kitchen, explaining over his shoulder, “We will have to get some water from the pump, but then we need only wash the beets and cut the ones we want for the salad into smaller pieces.” He paused, his steps slowing minutely. “And add some herbs, I believe. Did Madame Deniau say parsley, or was it tarragon…?” He hesitated again, frowning in thought, and added, “Of course we will have bread and cheese as well, in case the salad is, ah....”

“A failed experiment,” Javert suggested, attempting diplomacy.

Valjean’s lips twitched in amusement. “Yes. A failed experiment.”

The kitchen was not as large as Javert might have expected if he had considered it before this moment. The room did not seem large enough to produce enough food to feed a household of nearly ten, including the servants, but Javert welcomed the limited space. It meant he had a good excuse to stand close to Valjean as they washed and cut the beets, to be able to watch from the corner of his eye the flex of Valjean’s arms and to feel the occasional brush of Valjean’s elbow against his as they worked.

Each light touch sent a pulse of warmth through Javert and caught at his chest until he was almost dizzy. Surely his face must be flushed for seemingly no reason, with the kitchen’s windows open for the breeze and the room dark and cooler than outside.

And yet Valjean did not seem to notice, cutting the beets into long, thin pieces and placing them into two small bowls. Javert was glad when at last Valjean straightened and said cheerfully, “And now we just need to mix them with some herbs and we shall have our salad.” He squinted at the cabinet. “I still cannot remember if Madame Deniau said parsley or tarragon, or parsley _and_  tarragon,” he muttered, frowning.

Javert shrugged. “Try a little of both?”

Valjean took down two containers and sprinkled both herbs in small pinches over the beets. His hands, scrubbed clean of dirt before they had begun to wash the beets in earnest, now had pieces of herbs caught under their nails.

Javert repressed a laugh as Valjean frowned in consternation. “Here,” he said. He handed Valjean a spoon and watched Valjean thoroughly stir the salads, spreading as much as of the herbs as possible upon the beets.

Valjean’s stirring paused, and then he used the spoon to dig out a beet piece from among the others. Javert found himself almost hypnotized as Valjean took a careful bite of the beet, the vegetable a startlingly reddish-purple contrast against the paleness of his beard and the healthy tan of his skin. Valjean’s lips closed around the beet in a way that could not have meant to be suggestive but made Javert flush hotly all the same.

Javert busied himself with studying one of the herb containers with an intensity it did not deserve, embarrassed by his reaction to Valjean’s simple eating of a vegetable. When he finally stole a glance in Valjean’s direction, he caught Valjean making a face. He raised an eyebrow. “Is it terrible then?”

“It is not _terrible_ , but it is a little….” Valjean trailed off, hunting and failing to think of the right word. His tongue ran over his lips, as though still chasing after the taste and trying to name it.  

“Let me try it,” Javert said. He hesitated, tearing his gaze away from Valjean’s mouth and looking at the half-eaten piece still on the spoon. Unbidden, he remembered how Valjean’s lips had looked as he’d swallowed the beet. Greatly daring, or perhaps simply looking ridiculous, he took the beet between his thumb and first finger. There was a surprised puff of air against his skin as Valjean let out a quiet breath. Javert brought the beet quickly to his lips. He ate it, grimacing a little at the taste. “It’s a little too sweet, I think.”

Valjean said nothing for a few seconds, and then in a low mutter, half to himself, said, “Oh! I think Madame Deniau did say something about adding vinegar.” He fumbled in the cabinet, pulling the vinegar out after a hurried search and pouring a little into each bowl. This time he stirred more forcefully, his lower lip caught between his teeth, a flush in his cheeks. “Here,” he said at last, and offered a fresh spoonful of the salad to Javert with a small, half uncertain smile. “How is it now?”

Javert found himself hesitating yet again, studying Valjean’s smile and how close Valjean stood. The awareness that they were entirely alone threatened to overwhelm him. His heart pounded unsteadily in his ears, his throat tight as numerous possibilities filled his mind, dizzying him.

He reached out and caught hold of Valjean’s hand, curling his fingers lightly around Valjean’s wrist. There was the same startled flutter beneath his fingertips as when he’d tied Valjean’s ribbon earlier. The spoon shook for a second in Valjean’s grip and then steadied. When Javert studied Valjean’s expression, it was to find Valjean watching him with the hopeful look he’d worn in the garden, his face pink but his eyes steady and warm upon Javert.

Emboldened by Valjean’s encouraging gaze, Javert bent over their hands and lowered his mouth to the spoon. The sharp sting of the vinegar counteracted the cloying sweetness and gave the salad a pleasing flavor, but Javert was more intrigued by how Valjean’s shoulders inclined towards him and the bitten-back sigh that escaped Valjean as Javert’s lips closed around the spoon.

Javert did not immediately straighten. Instead he tugged the spoon from Valjean’s unresisting fingers. He was determined that there would be no interruptions this time, and filled with a sudden conviction that only a careless word could spoil this moment. He swallowed down even the urge to say Valjean’s name and fumbled with the spoon, blindly setting it upon the table. Then he focused all his attention upon Valjean’s hand, which now rested palm up in Javert’s.

His hand was as Javert remembered it from the weeding lesson, albeit cleaner, still callused and warm, the lines and small scars of his palm like a miniature map upon his skin, years of history and memories in each callus and small scar. Before, Javert had traced one of the deeper lines with his finger, the gesture unconscious. Now he touched Valjean with careful deliberation.

The kiss he pressed to Valjean’s palm was soft, a question answered by Valjean’s wondering sigh. He closed his eyes at the feel of Valjean’s hand upon his hair, overwhelmed by the tenderness that welled up in him at the touch and by the affection in the slow sweep of Valjean’s thumb across his brow. He knew without looking that the corners of Valjean’s eyes were creased and he was smiling one of his rare bright smiles. He wished that they could stay like this for an hour or two, but already his neck ached, his back protesting the awkward position. In another minute the discomfort would turn to pain. And there was also the fact that Valjean still needed to eat, his pained look a too recent memory to ignore.

Javert pressed a second kiss into Valjean’s palm and then brushed a third upon Valjean’s fingertips. He started to straighten, Valjean’s hand shifting to clasp his shoulder, and then froze as he met Valjean’s gaze, ensnared by the sight. He had known that Valjean would be smiling, had thought himself prepared, and yet this look was unlike any of Valjean’s past smiles. The others had come and gone like sudden sunbursts peeking out from behind a cloud, blindingly radiant and breathtaking for an instant and then swiftly muted to small, pleased looks. This one warmed his entire face and did not fade, in fact only strengthened and grew brighter still as Javert looked at him. It was a look tinged with wonder and wholehearted happiness.

For a second Javert’s mind emptied, all thoughts banished by the force of Valjean’s smile. He smiled helplessly back, the upward turn of his lips easy and natural, his own happiness surely reflected in his face. He drank in Valjean’s expression greedily, struggling to commit it to memory, though he knew, the certainty a warm, pleasurable weight in his stomach, that Valjean had many other such smiles in him, ones which Javert would be privileged to incite and witness in the future.

He was still holding Valjean’s wrist, he realized, but he found he could not bear to let go. Perhaps that sentiment reflected in his face, for Valjean’s hand moved carefully in his and became a clasping of hands. His other hand lingered on Javert’s shoulder.

It was then that the smell of vinegar tickled Javert’s nose, and he remembered with a small start that they had been in the middle of making a meal and that Valjean had not yet eaten. Still trying to collect his scattered thoughts, the words tumbled awkwardly off his tongue as Javert muttered, “Well. I think that, ah, I think that will suit us both.”

For a second Valjean looked puzzled, and then understanding lit his eyes as he glanced at the table. “Yes,” he agreed, and his smile, impossibly, widened. He looked down at their hands. He was as unwilling as Javert to let go, it seemed, for he paused and then said slowly, “If you will carry the salads and the cutlery, I shall bring the rest.”

“Very well.” Javert released Valjean’s hand with reluctance; Valjean’s hand upon his shoulder lifted a second later. And yet Valjean’s warm touch seemed to linger, as though the light press of his hand had left imprints upon Javert’s skin. Javert busied himself with gathering up the cutlery and the salad bowls, though his gaze kept straying to Valjean.

Once Valjean had taken up the plates, the bread, and a wedge of cheese, he led the way towards his room. Javert followed close on his heels, the hallway too narrow for them to walk comfortably side by side. He took the opportunity to once more appreciate Valjean’s broad shoulders, his back, his legs, the vitality of him, so different from the near-corpse Javert had encountered that first morning at the Rue de l’Homme Arme. He wondered if Valjean knew he was looking, if he could feel Javert’s gaze like a minute pressure upon his skin. His hands ached, wanting to touch everywhere his eyes lingered.

Happiness and wondering anticipation welled up in his chest once more, so overwhelming that he had to pause a second and take in a slow breath before he could continue up the stairs. Valjean’s quarters were spacious, larger even than his old antechamber, far larger than Javert’s room, and nearly as sparse as Javert had imagined. Curiosity pricked at him. He studied the room while Valjean set out the plates and the bread and cheese upon a small table. There in the far corner was the little valise Cosette had made so much of when moving Valjean’s belongings; there, a desk where Valjean perhaps had written the note that had sent Victoire to Javert’s apartment; there, two chairs at the small table where Javert and Valjean would sit and eat; there, the neatly made bed where Valjean had slept only a few hours ago.

Javert’s gaze lingered on the last for a heartbeat and then away, his throat hot beneath his collar, his mind teasing him with all manner of half-formed ideas. He hastily placed the salad and cutlery upon the table, his face warming further as his elbow brushed Valjean’s. He stepped to the window, which was closed. He fumbled with the latch, but at last it obeyed his shaky hand. When he opened the window and blinked out at the tall hedges that encircled the garden, closer than he had thought they would be, a cool breeze touched his face.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh air, trying to regain some semblance of control over himself. The light scent of lemons both surprised and steadied him. When he opened his eyes, he realized he had overlooked the small vase of roses upon the windowsill. They were Cosette’s addition to the room, no doubt, the flowers bright and startlingly pink against the otherwise pale whites and lighter pastels of the room. He touched one of the roses, the blossom smooth like silk. He remembered how Valjean had tucked one of the first blooms of the summer into his vest pocket, the stroke of his fingers upon petals, both like and unlike the way Valjean had touched Javert’s brow earlier.

On impulse, Javert took up the vase and moved it to the middle of the table. He set it down harder than he’d intended, earning both a dull thud and a startled look from Valjean. Embarrassed, he ducked his head and muttered, “I can move it back, I only thought--”

“No,” Valjean said. The overwhelmingly brilliant smile returned to his face. He reached out and brushed one of the roses with gentle fingers. Javert wondered if he was thinking of that first rose as well, or if he just appreciated the gesture. “No,” Valjean said again, flushed and pleased. “It is-- it is good there. Please, sit down.”

Though it was a suggestion, Javert obeyed as though it was an order, folding himself awkwardly into the chair and discovering that the table was a bit too low to the ground to be entirely comfortable. He stretched out his legs, not entirely displeased when his foot touched Valjean’s.

Valjean had procured wine and two cups from somewhere while Javert had struggled with the window. At the sudden press of their ankles, he flushed and fumbled with the bottle, spilling a little upon his hand and arm. His shirtsleeve, still rolled up to his elbow, just escaped staining. “Oh,” he said with a rueful twitch of his lips, and took a handkerchief from his pocket before Javert could react.

Their ankles remained pressed together. Desire once more heated Javert’s stomach, but it was not an overwhelmingly urgent warmth as he watched Valjean dab at the wine. He found himself paradoxically both impatient and not, wanting this peaceful moment to linger and yet wishing the meal over with so that he could put these half-formed desires to action. He breathed in, and the lemon scent tickled at his senses once more.

Apparently satisfied that he had wiped away all trace of the spill, Valjean tucked his handkerchief away. He poured the wine with almost exaggerated care, smiling at Javert as though to invite him in on the jest. Then he set the bottle aside and bowed his head over his plate. His eyes closed. A second later, his lips began to move in silent prayer.

Javert belatedly lowered his head and clasped his hands together, though he kept his eyes open, watching Valjean. He did not pray. In truth, he still struggled to reconcile the idea of a just and merciful god with one who had allowed Valjean to suffer for so long. Javert had prayed by rote for the first fifty years of his life, as though making a report to a distant superior who doubtless had more important matters to attend to; now his prayers felt more like hesitant conversations, awkward and stilted, still feeling one-sided more often than not.

But if he struggled in his faith and still doubted the existence of his soul, he found comfort in Valjean’s steadfast belief and the way that praying lent a serenity to the other man’s expression. And though Valjean may not have not bought Javert’s soul that night upon the parapet, he had certainly awoken Javert’s conscience, which seemed a more useful and valuable thing.

Valjean finished his prayer and straightened. Opening his eyes, he caught Javert watching him. A faint flush colored his cheeks once more, but he didn't look away. “Well,” he said, and then stopped. He sat a little straighter, smiling almost nervously as he took up his glass of wine.

For a second, Javert didn't understand what Valjean intended, for Valjean held the glass but didn’t immediately drink. Then he realized that Valjean meant to make a toast. He reached for his own glass, waiting to see what Valjean would say. All manner of absurd suggestions formed in his mind, from the ridiculously sentimental to more lewd ones that made him shift a little in his chair. His foot knocked against Valjean’s. He ducked behind the glass to hide the twitch of his lips.  

Apparently Valjean wasn't certain how to toast the meal, for he hesitated a moment, turning the glass around in his hands and looking thoughtful. Then he raised his glass. “To the harvest,” he said. The toast was deceptively simple and yet behind it was the history of these past few months, all the hours spent learning to understand each other and enjoy each other’s company.

“To the harvest,” Javert said. The wine was sweet without being cloying, but he barely tasted it, distracted by the way the corners of Valjean’s eyes crinkled in pleasure at the flavor. He took a second sip and then set the wine aside.

“Did you want some bread along with the salad?” Valjean asked, watching Javert gather a forkful of beets. As he reached for the bread knife, his knee lightly nudged Javert’s.

There was no hint of discomfort in Valjean’s face, but the memory of his leg giving way beneath him was too fresh for Javert not to reach out and touch Valjean’s knee. Valjean shivered beneath his hand at the unexpected contract, his lips parting in a soft, surprised look. Javert’s face warmed, but he did not move his hand, and if there was surprise in Valjean’s expression, there was also something of his earlier anticipation, his eyes fixed upon Javert.

Javert cleared his throat. Valjean’s knee was very warm and still against his palm. He resisted the urge to run his thumb along the side of it to see if Valjean would shiver again, for if he did, he suspected that they would never finish the meal. He cleared his throat again. “Your knee. Does it still bother you?”

“No,” Valjean said after a second. Perhaps his throat felt tight as well, for the answer came out hoarse, a low, rough note that made Javert repress a shiver of his own. “No, it is--” It was Javert’s turn to startle as Valjean rested his hand upon Javert’s, keeping it there. “It does not pain me.”

“Good,” Javert said, rather foolishly, but Valjean seemed unbothered by Javert’s lack of eloquence.  

Valjean did not move his hand, but took up his fork with his other hand and began to eat in slow, careful bites, his warm gaze moving often between Javert and his plate. If it made navigating the meal somewhat awkward, Javert found he did not care.

They ate in relative silence, exchanging smiles across the table. Javert found all the hours spent planting and weeding the vegetables well worth the effort as Valjean smiled at every bite of his salad. Their conversation turned once more to the school and its library, and Valjean’s soft laughter was warm and easy.

Before, Javert had been satisfied with the performance of his duty and content in his righteousness. Those moments of ignorant certainty were lost to him, forever banished by a superior understanding of justice and mercy. Instead he found satisfaction in watching Valjean eat the beets they had grown together, and contentment in Valjean’s unfeigned pleasure. Valjean’s happiness was more potent than the wine they shared, so sweet and strong that Javert grew lightheaded on Valjean’s smile. His chest ached, too full of this strange, untempered joy, and yet he couldn't look away or reign in his own smile, not when Valjean seemed to feel the same way, often pausing mid-sentence to favor Javert with a soft, wondering look.

When they had eaten their fill, Valjean made to rise; his hand pressed Javert’s once more before he settled back in his chair and reached for their bowls. “Well,” he said as he stacked the dishes, his voice nearly lost amid the clatter. “Between the two of us, I think we managed the meal quite nicely. Cosette will be impressed. And I shall have to thank Madame Deniau for her recipe. Oh, perhaps I should pass along the recipe to the foundling hospital--” He fumbled with one of the spoons and dropped it.

Javert knelt instinctively, reaching for the spoon which had fallen under Valjean’s chair. When he looked up from tapping the spoon against the chair’s leg to dispel any dirt, he found Valjean wearing a half-smile of repressed laughter. Javert paused, wondering at Valjean’s amusement but also caught by the warm affection in his gaze.

He remembered suddenly that they had done this before, that first morning when he had glowered at Valjean until Valjean had grudgingly eaten Madame Mercier’s broth. When Valjean had dropped his spoon, Javert had knelt to retrieve it. But how different Valjean had seemed then, more of a corpse than a man; his features had been gaunt, his eyes sunken, his breathing labored, his hands unsteady. And yet even that terrible memory of Valjean’s frailness could not hurt either of them now, Javert thought, not when Valjean sat before him, his strength restored, his face flushed with health and happiness, his hands now steady where they rested upon the table.

He was still kneeling, he realized, bent before Valjean like some penitent sinner seeking absolution. He dismissed the irreverent thought with a small shake of his head, earning a slightly puzzled look from Valjean. If Valjean was a saint, he was one of the soil, an ordinary man performing extraordinary acts of kindness and charity.

He wondered what Valjean would say if he voiced his thoughts; doubtless Valjean would flush and protest against being likened to a saint, even one who performed no miracle but stretched out his hand to help others.

Javert gripped the edge of the table, intending to leverage himself upright. He paused when Valjean smiled and shifted in his chair, reaching out a hand to Javert’s elbow and helping him stand. Once Javert was steady on his feet, Valjean’s hand slipped from his elbow to his hand, turning once more into a clasping of hands; as in the kitchen, neither let go. Javert set the spoon aside and looked down at their interlaced fingers, studying the dusting of white hair upon the back of Valjean’s hand. When he had chosen this path, when he had chosen Valjean and all that entailed, he had not known where his decision would lead them. He had moved forward blindly, hoping that he would not lose his way and trusting that Valjean would steer him back to the right course should he make another mistake. So often during this past year he had felt as though he were stumbling around in the dark, so often he had spent sleepless nights second-guessing the smallest of decisions, and yet in this moment it seemed the simplest thing in the world to take one more step closer, to tighten up his grip upon Valjean’s hand and draw him up from the chair.

They stood face to face now, close enough that he could feel the hitch in Valjean’s breath as he leaned in, could watch anticipation and desire banish the lingering curiosity from Valjean’s expression. And there was still no doubt, no second-guessing, only perhaps a touch of wonder that this felt so easy, to take this final step and kiss him.  

Valjean’s hand tightened around his own. Javert’s chest ached again, too full. He ran his free hand across Valjean’s broad shoulder and delighted in the banked strength in the muscles there. Breaking the kiss, he breathed rough against the corner of Valjean’s mouth. The summer breeze ruffled their hair, bringing with it the lemon fragrance of the roses that mixed with the headier scents of soap and sweat.

Javert had closed his eyes at some point, but he did not dare open them yet, for fear that Valjean’s expression would undo him entirely. He moved blindly, turning his head a little to recapture Valjean’s mouth, tasting the lingering sweetness of the wine and beets alongside the fainter hint of the vinegar. Valjean’s hand upon his back was sudden but welcome; Javert relaxed into the touch and obeyed the light pressure until Valjean had pulled him even closer and they were pressed together, stomach to stomach. He caught Valjean’s sigh against his lips and let his hand trace up Valjean’s shoulder and his collar until he touched Valjean’s neck. He could still feel the sun’s warmth upon Valjean’s skin, the eager fluttering of Valjean’s heart against his fingertips.

He felt like a tinderbox in that moment, the warmth of Valjean’s skin a spark ready to light him aflame and consume him. He pulled away a little, his cravat too tight; he pressed another quick kiss against Valjean’s lips and stepped back, taking in another deep breath. Valjean’s hand slipped slowly from Javert’s back and slid down his forearm as Javert lowered his own hand; Valjean caught hold of his hand, interlacing their fingers.

They stood now, facing each other. When Javert at last opened his eyes, he looked down at their hands, both linked. He huffed a laugh at the picture they made. Valjean answered with a half-smile, but it was a small turn of his lips, his expression soft with wondering happiness. Javert started to speak, and then realized he had no idea what to say. Language seemed wholly inadequate; nothing seemed sufficient to describe how he felt as he looked at Valjean’s smile.  

Perhaps that reflected in his face, or Valjean felt the same way, for neither immediately spoke. Instead Valjean brought Javert’s hands to his lips and brushed a gentle kiss across his knuckles. This time the sound that rose to Javert’s lips was not a laugh but a sigh, one that made Valjean’s ears turn pink. The quiet words tickled Javert’s skin as Valjean murmured, “Ah, after we wash the dishes, we could go back to the garden and harvest more beets, or we could read further in _Don Quixote_  or...well, whatever is your preference.”

Javert looked at Valjean’s still-pink ears and felt affection threaten to overwhelm him once more. Then he thought of the effect Valjean’s sun-soothed expression had had on him in the past; it was his turn to flush a little. He cleared his throat and then lightly squeezed Valjean’s hands. “I would not mind reading more of Don Quixote’s adventures. Although if we spend the entire afternoon reading we may finish it.” He considered the library and its stupefying number of books, how he and Valjean together had haphazardly searched the shelves to find _Don Quixote_ , and suggested, “Perhaps we should begin to explore the library in full today and make up a list of suitable books for the future. Then we would not have to rummage through the shelves every time we finish a volume.”

He was not expecting sudden humor to light Valjean’s eyes or for him to say with a small smile, “That’s a good thought. Perhaps next we should try a book of poetry. Monsieur Gillenormand still has _The Botanic Garden_ , I believe.” Javert barked out a startled laugh, and Valjean’s smile widened, pleased by Javert’s reaction.

“That poem would require some privacy, I think,” Javert said dryly. “Imagine reading such things in the garden--” He paused, and flushed again, remembering how in the privacy of his own room he had imagined Valjean’s reaction at a reading of the poem. Now, with their hands still clasped and the memory of Valjean’s mouth warm and willing against his still fresh, it was easy to picture the way Valjean’s ears would pink and his gaze would warm, the hitch in his breath as Javert read to him.

Javert cleared his throat. Desire tightened his chest. It was another second before he could gather enough breath to mutter, “Well, perhaps, ah, we should compose two lists. One for the garden and one for, ah, the privacy of your room….”   

Valjean’s hands tightened upon Javert’s. “Oh,” he said, his lips parting in surprise. The low, rough word made Javert shiver. For another second Valjean only looked at him, half-wonderingly, as if he too marveled at their good fortune; then he smiled that radiant smile from before, the one that put all others to shame. “I do not know if Monsieur Gillenormand has much literature that would suit the latter list, but, it will surely do no harm to look….”  

“No harm at all,” Javert agreed. The impulse to lean forward and breathe the opening stanza of _The Botanic Garden_  into Valjean’s ear rose in him and was quelled with effort. Instead he brought their hands to his lips and answered Valjean’s kiss with one of his own. “Shall we?”

At Valjean’s small nod, he pressed another kiss to Valjean’s hand and then released him. It was perhaps sentimental, and foolish besides, that his hands should feel empty without Valjean’s warm, callused hands clasping them. He gathered up the bowls and cutlery, busying his hands even as Valjean took up the dishes and the remains of the bread.

It was only after he had gathered up the last spoon that Javert remembered the window, still open from when he had fumbled with the latch and let the fresh air temper his desire. He wondered if he should shut the window. Dropping the cutlery into the stacked bowls, he left them on the table for the moment. He stepped again to the sill and then paused, his hands resting upon the frame.

He looked down at the tall hedges that encircled the garden, closer to the window than he had anticipated, although too far away to touch. The patch of garden Valjean called his own could not be seen, and yet Javert could picture it like a painting in his mind. He had over the past few months grown to know it almost as well as Valjean’s face. If they returned to the vegetable garden now, Javert suspected he could point out where he had planted his first seed while balanced awkwardly on the balls of his feet, where Valjean had almost brushed the dirt from his brow, where not so very long ago Javert had reached out and tied Valjean’s hat.

It was Valjean’s garden, Javert thought, but it was also his a little, much as Pontmercy had credited the school’s library to him when its creation really belonged to them both. He wondered what else they could accomplish, especially with Cosette and Pontmercy’s assistance.

“Javert.” Valjean’s voice was quiet, but still Javert startled, drawn abruptly from his thoughts.

Javert closed the window and turned to Valjean, a smile coming easily to his mouth at Valjean’s soft look. His chest tightened once more; then he felt a queer sense of relief, the way that a man who has walked an uncertain, toilsome road might feel when he has reached his destination. He took up the bowls and cutlery again. “Coming, Valjean,” he said. The name felt new on his lips.

Valjean’s smile grew, smoothing away some of the lines in his face and bringing out new ones at the corners of his eyes; he crossed to the door without glancing back.

For a moment Javert stood and watched him go, affection and happiness warming him once more; then, dishes in hand, he followed Valjean.

 

* * *

 

  

 

 

> “The face of all the world is changed, I think,  
>  Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul  
>  Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole  
>  Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink  
>  Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,  
>  Was caught up into love, and taught the whole  
>  Of life in a new rhythm.”  
>  \- “VII” from _Sonnets of the Portuguese_  by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


End file.
